


The Lower Depths

by asparagusmama



Series: Seasons - AU season 5 [3]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Crime Plot, M/M, References to Prostitution, a much larger than usual cameo for the creator of Morse and Lewis, canon divergence at season 4, gone very slightly RP fic, originally created in 2010, references people trafficking and slavery, references to porn movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparagusmama/pseuds/asparagusmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A murder in a hamlet outside Oxford has links to international people smuggling, a previous case of the Met and one of Lewis' and links to Oxford's academia.</p><p>Meanwhile, Lewis and Hathaway struggle with their newly redefined relationship in aftermath of Cold Summer - hence the rape/non con tag, but only for Hathaway's PTSD following the crime he was victim to, almost three months ago in this story. There are no detailed references whatsoever.</p><p>The rape/non-con tag is also for the past histories of the victim and some of the witnesses/suspects/associates and friends of the victim. There are no details, I just err on the side of caution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the three Lewis screenplays by Alan Plater - one nightclub and two dissertations. he also, in his three Lewises seems to be fond of the phrase, 'Well, this is Oxford.' This is written with love as a tribute in memorium to a great screenplay writer x

A yellow and blue single decker bus turns a corner off a main road and circles around a semi circle of houses, mostly 1950s council semi detached houses and bungalows, with a modern build block of flats at one end. It stops at the bottom opposite an alley leading to fields. A large house can be seen in the distance, along with waving yellow rapeseed plants and a wood. The door opens with a hiss and the entrance lowers with another hiss for a woman with a buggy and an elderly lady struggling with a heavy shopping trolley. Behind them a tall young man with long, matted black hair showing dark brown roots and smudged black eyeliner gets off, one hand firmly on a wooden walking stick and the other, equally firmly, holding hands with a small child of about five or six, with blonde hair in bunches and wearing a green and white check primary school dress and green cardigan. She has a bandage over a pink plaster on her other hand. Sighing, he leads her through the alleyway.

*

In the bleak corridor of a remand prison a man in the blue uniform of an inmate is on the payphone. He is tall, broad, with spiked blond hair and a hard but not unattractive face, and speaks hurriedly in Polish. Behind him a shorter man stands, picking at his teeth and twirling a cigarette between his fingers. He appears to be an older, more compact version of the man on the phone.

*

A woman in a short black skirt and high-heeled boots is staggering down the middle of a 1960s open air shopping precinct. Over half the shop units are empty, many boarded up. She talks rapidly into her mobile in Polish as she pulls her white puffa jacket around her with her other hand.

* 

The sun shines onto the yellow walls of Merton opposite as the Fellow stirs his tea thoughtfully. He is listening to his phone as he stares out of the window, sun shining on rain and college and meadow, making a rainbow that appears to end in Deadman’s Walk.

*

Hathaway shivers as he shelters under an oak tree on the edge of the Cherwell in Christchurch Meadow, smoking a damp cigarette. The rainstorm had come from nowhere and now the sun was out. Lewis approaches him, carrying an umbrella and bearing a Styrofoam cup, hopefully containing coffee.

“There you are,” Lewis smiles.

“Sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to say sorry for. I’m sorry for pushing the issue again.”

“I want you to push,” Hathaway says fiercely.

“Not like that. No you don’t. I really thought we were done with this love?”

Hathaway’s shoulders droop and his head drops as he turns away and mutters, “So did I.”

*

Dumitre sighed again as he unlocked their mobile home. Behind him the gutted outline of the old cottage that Mick was supposed to be doing up cast shadows in the sunshine. He had to walk a mile from the village, cutting across the rape fields and wood to get to their lane and walk past old Mr. and Mrs Haycock’s lovely white cottage with its well-maintained garden and then into the fields and ruined cottage that had belonged to Mick’s granny. The other two caravans, who rented the land from Mick, were both occupied. Tim and Sarah were not often home at this hour, but he could see the bedroom curtains were closed and it was about a year ago they moved in, wasn’t it? Si’s TV could be heard, some movie with lots of gunfire, drifting across the long grass. He really hoped they couldn’t hear it inside.

“In you go Crina, darling.” He spoke in barely accented English, but he always spoke in English, often with a much more ex public school boy/Estuary accent than his own Romanian one, which sometimes he felt might even be an affectation these days because it was expected. Crina had grown up with a mixture of Romanian, Polish and Russian with a little English until he found his sister and made her send his niece to school. Ten years it took to find his sister, and only one year together before he’d lost her. He and Mick always spoke in English.

“Can I watch TV Uncle Dimi?”

Dimi shrugged. “Only Cbeebies, okay?”

In the small living room of their trailer Crina flopped on the floor in front of the TV after fetching a rag doll and a floppy rabbit from her small bedroom. Dimi put on the kettle and some water to boil for pasta. What was he going to do? He asked himself for the fifth time. In one year five schools had decided that Crina’s special needs were beyond their ability to cope with.

His phone buzzed angrily, vibrating in his skinny black jeans pocket.

“Yes?”

It was Waleria – Walli, as she was known – his sister’s friend.

“I get advice,” she snapped immediately. “I tell people what you do, that you no better than me and Tatiana. I speak to men who bring you. I speak to man who pay. He had videos of you.”

“Do what you want Walli. I have done nothing to be ashamed of. I’m clean; I’ve always been clean. I have a home and Mick.”

“I tell them about illness. I tell them you too sick. Tatiana and me, we were two together, when we get away from them, we stay, we promise each other. She wanted me to have Crina.”

“She made me promise to look after Crina on her deathbed,” Dimi hissed in the phone. “Social services agree. Do your worst.”

He hung up and threw the phone on the counter. He felt dizzy and stumbled to the dining table and sat down heavily.

“Uncle Dimi!”

“Just tired darling. Oh, Charlie and Lola. I like that. I’ll watch it with you before I make tea.”

*

Si stared out of the window as he answered his phone. A job. A bit of enforcement. Good. He liked hurting people. He left, locking up the wagon and climbed into his van and sped away, rocking Dimi’s caravan as he did so.

*

The Fellow, one Professor Anton Milyutin, visiting professor of sociology of criminal behaviour, here for a three year contract at Nuffield, had found rooms, bizarrely, in Merton Street, just around the corner from Oriel Square. He had made a famous study of people trafficking and the use of drugs to control people and the general ignorance and avoidance of the situation by various Western governments, which in his later award winning book, The Lower Depths, he argued was for convenience, that there was a demand for prostitution and hardcore porn that was better met by illegal immigrants rather than citizens. His papers had been well received and he had to turn down Harvard and Yale for here, despite the larger salary. He had loved the idea of coming to one of the oldest colleges in Europe and besides; he had personal reasons to come to the UK.

He looked at the time. He had agreed to a meeting in Abingdon but now he doubted himself – could he get there and back by public transport and be in time for his public lecture on Poverty, Addiction and Prostitution in the Post-Modern West. Swearing under his breath, he discarded his black gown and snatched up a battered grey leather trench coat and umbrella and left, stuffing a much needed cigarette into his mouth.

*

A white van revved away as Milyutin walked up the street to the girl’s flat. Inside was mayhem. She sat in the detritus of her small, poverty stricken bedsit, in tears, mascara and eyeliner streaming down her face. She was most unattractive.

“Anton!” She jumped to her feet and wrapped her arms around him. “Darling! Thank you for coming. I need some money, badly.” She spoke in Russian with a heavy Polish accent.

Milyutin removed her arms with distaste. If he didn’t need girls like this for his research, he would never bother. But this girl knew too much from his past, how he had funded his degrees in the early years.

“Yes yes, I know. How much? But this has to stop, I have finished my research, I no longer need you.”

“I know about you.”

“Yes, I know. And I know about you.”

“I know about you and Dumitre. I know about the money and the movies.”

“So?” he said coldly, feeling panic seep through his skin.

“I know Dimi. He has my friend’s little girl and I want her. I need money and a home to have her. I need to pay debts.”

*

Si parked up just off the A34 junction, having visited the Maccy D’s drive through. He was stuffing his face with a double cheese quarterpounder with extra fries when his phone rang. He’d been waiting for hours for the call but he guessed his bosses were finding it hard to get to the phone whenever they needed.

“Scared her. She told me where to find the boy. Couldn’t get any cash though.” Si had been very surprised to find out where the boy was, who indeed he was.

He listened. “Sure. London. Ring us tomorrow morning, give me the addresses then. Money. Sure.”

He listened some more, his appetite going. “What the fuck? No! No way man! I’ll hurt anyone, but I don’t kill! And certainly not a –”

The line went dead. He guessed a prison guard had interrupted his old boss’ brother. He finished his burger and fries and drained the cola before starting the engine to go home and have an early night. He had a long day ahead in London, enforcing to pay for the boss’ lawyers.

*

Waleria was grateful to find a taxi driver to give her a ride for a ride, as it were, and she ran barefoot, holding her heeled boots, across the back of the fields behind the crumbling cottage to Dimi’s caravan.

“Dimi! Dimi!” she shouted, banging on the door.

Tim and Sarah looked out of the window. Tim’s heart flipped. Shit, he knew that girl. He pulled Sarah away from the window.

“None of our business,” he said. “Let’s not gawp.” He kissed the back of her neck. She giggled. “Come back to bed,” he whispered in her ear. 

“I’m sorry!” Walli went on. “Sorry. I not mean to tell them. They are closing all their loose ends. I not mean to tell them...”

Dimi sat on the floor hugging Crina tightly, rocking them. Crina was crying.

“Mama didn’t want me to stay with Auntie Walli. Make her go Uncle Dimi. She is bad when she can’t get the medicine, very bad. Mama stopped it didn’t she? When she was sick and they gave her proper medicine?”

“I know darling.”

“Don’t let her in! Don’t open the door. I don’t want to live with her!”

Waleria was shouting now in Polish. “They will get you Dimi. You can testify. The police will get the videos and make you testify!”

*

James Hathaway also sat hugging his knees and rocking. What the hell had he done? His phone rang and rang, only pausing to let him know he had yet another text. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do! He was too broken. Robbie Lewis should give up and dump him.

Perhaps he was?

No, Lewis would never dump anyone over the phone. He was worried for him.

He’d panicked. Again. That was it. And it wasn’t even his childhood, was it? Robbie had just moved his hand and put it – there – as he’d kissed him deeply and suddenly his senses had been hit by the memory of someone else’s tongue, someone else’s teeth, someone else’s hand, to the smell of foreign cigarettes and skunk and bad meat and boiled cabbage and male sweat. And he’d done what he’d done in the back of the cab, even though he’d been drugged – he’d punched!

He got up and walked around his flat, still hugging himself tightly. What a stupid twat he was. He could go back and he’d have someone to hold him tightly. He did want a hug. He was pretty sure he wanted more, too. Just his brain kicked into survival mode or something.

Stupid. He punched the fridge door and then stared at his collection of Cabernet Sauvignon and Pinot Noir and then reached for the Glenfiddich and poured himself a generous glass and went back to the sofa and curled up tightly.

*

Lewis paced the flat, trying and trying James’ number, stopping now and then to send yet another reassuring text, bag of frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel over one eye.

The other phone rang. It was Lyn. She phoned so much since she had moved in with her new bloke. He had this inkling she was pregnant but too embarrassed to tell him. He could sense she was hiding things, that she wasn’t as happy as she should be in a new relationship. This time he found himself pouring his heart to her, which he hated himself for. He was the parent; he should be there for her, not vice versa. He had already told her about his feelings for James, about their very slowly developing relationship. For some reason he had needed to reassure her that nothing too physical was happening as much as he needed to reassure he had never hidden anything from her Mam, that he was and always had been in love with her Mam, that he’d never cheated on her, but likewise, he had always been bisexual, there had been lads as well as lasses before her Mam. To do this he had dropped hints that James had issues, that James had had an unhappy, difficult childhood.

Tonight was different, he poured out all that had happened back in May, only a couple of months ago after all.

That James had panicked.

And punched him.

Again.

Lyn told him to give him space and invited him to stay with her as soon as he could get leave.

He said he’d think about it while thinking, yes, love, you are pregnant, I knew it, and I’m going to be a Granddad. A Granddad! 

And then hoped for a murder. He’d have to speak to him, then, wouldn’t he?

*

Crina and Dimi fell asleep on the floor watching her Peppa Pig DVD for the umpteeth time. He awoke stiff and cold and carried her to bed then forced himself to wash up. He then remembered the text from Mick. He’d left the water on in the cottage. Dimi grabbed the torch and opened the door.

*

Tim suddenly remembered the presentation he was supposed to be working on at home and Sarah had marking to do. Both brief cases and laptops were still in the cars. Their little unofficial ‘sickie’ holiday had come to an end. He picked up the torch and headed for the old cottage drive where he and Sarah parked their cars.

*

Tim put his hand over his mouth. He didn’t even think people did that in real life with shock. Bile rose in his mouth. Dimi was standing there next to – her! Next to Valerie. The girl from that ‘massage parlour’ he and some of the lads had gone to that time. He had dropped his torch and he was standing there weeping, muttering something over and over again. Tim thought it was probably Russian, Polish, Romanian, whatever, for God.

Dimi was in shock. He’d not let her in earlier. He thought she had gone home.

Waleria was stretched out on her side, her straight black hair fanned out, greenish in the torchlight, making her look like a mermaid, except mermaids heads were not usually lolling at strange angles. Her neck was probably snapped, Dimi thought numbly. Who could do that? Could he do that? Mick probably could, if riled, if defensive. But Mick was in Devon, wasn’t he?

There was blood too. Lots of blood. He couldn’t see where it came from.

“Don’t touch the blood,” he said to Tim, numbly.

“I’ll phone for an ambulance,” Tim said equally numbly.

“Police,” whispered Dimi. “Police. She needs police. An ambulance will do nothing for her now.”

“Yes. Yes. Oh God.”


	2. Chapter 2

Lewis pulled up the narrow lane, passing the white cottage, lights blazing and an elderly couple stood at their garden gate gawping up the lane at the police cars, mortuary van and arc lights over people moving in white suits. He saw James’ car parked next to Hobson’s four by four. He looked at himself in the mirror before he got out. Not bad, the frozen peas had done their job and there was little swelling and fortunately it hadn’t developed into a black eye, just a small purple bruise to the side of his left eye. James had one hell of a right hook. He ran the lie through his head one last time to check he had it off pat and got out. 

Immediately James approached, his face blank and professional. “Sir.” He handed him a scene suit.

“What have we got then?” he asked, stepping into it.

He followed James past cars and a crumbling cottage to a field as James spoke. “A Polish young woman. Waleria Nowicka. Twenty-seven years old. Bashed on the head and then finished off with bare hands around her throat. Should get some DNA, hopefully, according to Dr. Hobson. Body found by Tim Jones, from there –” James indicated the right hand caravan, “- and a Dumitre Brown...”

“Brown?”

“He’s Romanian, in a civil partnership with a Mick Brown, decided to take his boyfriend’s surname, apparently.”

“You can do that?”

“Obviously. He’s in shock. He knew the victim, a friend of his sister – deceased. He has custody of his niece, and Ms Nowicka didn’t like that. He was also on the ball when uniform, SOCO and Hobson got here, not letting anyone go near the body until properly gloved.”

“Eh?”

“The victim was HIV positive.”

“Shit.”

“Yup.” James’ eyes glazed over and he looked over Lewis’ head as Lewis sucked in a breath through his teeth and he looked at his feet. James’ first HIV test had come back negative, but he was supposed to have a second in a few weeks. Neither man liked to think about it, let alone talk about it.

“What else?”

“Well, in a isolated hamlet far from a bus route she must have been here to visit her dead friend’s brother. Mr. Jones seems to think he saw the other neighbour talk to her in Abingdon a few weeks ago though. Abingdon is where she has a room. He’s a Simon Cope, a bit of a thug, if appearances are anything to go by. Besides, he has form. He denies it. Also Jones tells us she was banging on the Brown caravan earlier this evening.”

“And what does this Dumitre Brown say?”

“Nothing. I agreed we’d interview him in the morning Sir.”

“Why’s that?”

“There is a six years old child in that small mobile home. I thought...”

“It’s fine James.”

They had now reached the body. Hobson stood up. “Ah, Robbie. Pretty straightforward if violent. I should be able to get you some skin cells from her neck. John.” A man handed her a bag containing a rock, a large piece of flint. “Struck on the back of the head with this first. Maybe we’ll get lucky and get a print.”

“Maybe. Right. I’m done here ’til morning, I think. James has everything under control.” He had been deliberately keeping to the shadows but Hobson stepped closer to him and peered at his bruise.

“What happened to you?”

“Smacked me head on a kitchen cupboard, didn’t I? Emptying the dishwasher I stood and whacked me face coz I’d not shut the door. Feel a bit of a prat, really.”

Hobson smiled, “Bet you do. You should take care, Robbie.” But she watched with a thoughtful expression as Robbie looked at Hathaway, watching him as he awkwardly tugged his suit sleeve even further over his hand.

“Get someone to take your car. You’re with me. We need to talk about the witnesses you’ve already interviewed,” Lewis said to Hathaway in earshot of uniform, mentally amending, ‘and other things’.

“I’ll drive it back sarge,” said Julie.

“Thanks,” James replied, tossing her the keys.

Once in the car James snapped, “A variation on a theme of walked in to the door. Robbie!”

Robbie said nothing for a while, but once they were on the B road on their way to Boars Hill he pulled into a layby and snapped on the interior light and demanded, 

“Well, what am I supposed to say? Innocent wouldn’t take too kindly to hearing my sergeant assaulted me. Again.”

“I slapped you last time.”

“Still assault.” Lewis watched as James fiddled with the sleeve over his hand and slowly reached out and pulled back the sleeve and looked hard at the bruised, swollen knuckle. “Looks like you came off worse, really. Mind you, its been said before, I’ve got a head like an anvil! You okay? I know you were flashing, James. It’s okay love, okay. Okay. Did you put something on this? No, of course not. You’re gonna have to keep this hidden or everyone is going to put two and two together...”

James sighed. “I know.” He looked directly at his boss. “I’m sorry. Very sorry.”

Lewis shrugged. “I know. So I am, shouldn’t have let my hand wander. You’re not... ready. But I’m warning you pet, I don’t know if I can always remain so in control. You keep smacking me I’m going to lose it sometime and hit you back. And you don’t want that.”

James shivered but his pupils dilated. “Is that a threat?”

“No. A warning. I’m trained in self-defence, I’ve been a policeman a long time and survival instinct might take over, especially if I’m tired. It’s probably better if we don’t do anything...”

“I want...!” James said fiercely.

“What do you want, eh? Snog on the sofa like we’re teenagers? I think I want bit more. But every time we try to...”

“So make me.”

“No way man. No bloody way. We’ll find a way through this together, alright.” Lewis stared a moment at James, who lowered his eyes, looking flushed, and nodded. “Right,” Lewis decided to chance the subject. “What do we know about the victim, eh? Apart from her name, age and nationality?”

“No much, but I think Dumitre Brown knows more. And probably his niece, she lived with her until her mother died.”

“So we know she lived with another woman. Where’d the kid come from?”

James shrugged. “I expect Brown will tell us more tomorrow.”

“Is he a suspect, you were there longer than me?”

James didn’t point out his boss had been there barely fifteen minutes. “Well, she wanted to take his niece from him, and the neighbours overheard her at the door, threatening him.”

“And where’s this Mick he’s married to?

“It’s not marriage Sir, it’s...”

“I know the stupid name. It’s marriage, right, by any other name. Bloody hell, you’re so bloody pedantic! Where is he anyhow?”

“Devon.”

“Devon?”

“He’s a carpenter, he goes where the work is, apparently.”

“Ah. Okay. We’ll find out tomorrow. We’ll get statements from her neighbours and that, find someone to identify the body.”

“I think that might end up being Mr. Brown.”

Lewis caught the biting sarcasm and what he could chose to call bitchiness as he heard the invisible quotation marks around Dumitre’s name. Time enough to explore it at a later date. James still wasn’t even comfortable with his sexuality, without the recent abduction and rape. Poor sod.

“Come stay at mine pet. I won’t touch you, just sleep with me. Please. I’d like to just hold you, if that’s okay? Is it? I won’t touch you in any way to make you uncomfortable, please, I...”

James was looking down, his head bowed and his neck bent to make him appear even smaller. He never needed to, all his height was legs, he was actually slightly shorter than Lewis sat down; it was one of those things that actually turned Lewis on, bizarrely. It also felt amazing lying between those long legs looking down at that beautiful face, so pretty...

James nodded. He seemed nervous to Lewis. “Yes please,” he said so quietly Lewis had to strain to hear. “I really am sorry. I wanted you to hug me so much when I was home but I was so afraid you would finish this... whatever it we have. I love you.”

*

First thing in the morning Lewis and Hathaway found Tim Jones waiting for him in the car park of the station.

“Sergeant! Sergeant Hathaway.” He stopped, short, having run up to them as he saw them get out of Lewis’ car. He looked at Lewis, confused.

“This is Inspector Lewis, he’s heading the investigation. How can we help you Mr. Jones?”

“Well, it’s kind of... I knew the woman. A bit. I just didn’t like to say in front of my fiancée. It’s...kind of embarrassing,” he broke off, mumbling.

“I can promise you Mr. Jones, everything you say will be treated in the strictest confidence, we’ll only use it if we have to.”

“I’d met her. Three times over a couple of years, but I’d not seen her for at least three. When I was a student... well, we visited this place, okay, there were girls...”

Lewis sighed and rubbed his eye, “A brothel,” he supplied helpfully.

“Well, yeah. But it was called a massage parlour, you know the thing.”

“I do indeed, unfortunately.”

“Can you give us the address Mr. Jones?”

“Of course. She wasn’t calling herself Waleria or whatever it is –” he pronounced the W as such instead of a Vee “- she called herself Valerie.”

Tim was surprised the way the sergeant’s head snapped to the side to check on his boss, looking concerned. A sad looked past the Inspector’s eyes before he pulled himself together and said politely, “Thank you Mr. Jones. We appreciate your honesty in this matter. You didn’t need to tell us, but the more we know about the woman’s past the more we have to find who killed her. Is there anything else you can tell us? Do you get the impression these were trafficked women, women funding a drug habit, what? Were they controlled? I realise that you weren’t looking for things like that, God knows it would have spoiled your enjoyment.”

“I was young!” Tim snapped at the Inspector’s disapproving, biting sarcastic tone.

“Of course,” the sergeant said, equally nastily, as if youth justified nothing.

“Look, I was trying to be helpful. And to answer your questions, I don’t know, is the short answer. She always had sleeves to below the elbow and I think I saw scars on her thigh, so maybe she was injecting something. She was always with a girl called Tracy, she also had an East European accent, so her name probably wasn’t Tracy, was it? There were always tough looking thugs at the door, I thought they were to protect the girls, but...” he shrugged. “I dunno. I only went the three times. My friend Colin was much more into that sort of thing. I can give you his name, if you like. He’s an accountant in Bristol now, married, with a baby, so be tactful, please.”

*

“So, she was a prostitute,” Hathaway said as he entered their office. Lewis followed him in and closed the door.

“We need to see what this Dumitre Brown has to say. I’ll look at the SOCOs initial report and then we’ll go. Get on to immigration, social security, inland revenue, will you, let’s find out if this girl has a paper trail.”

“Sir. She’s Polish, she can only be here legally.”

“Now. Yeah. But how long has she been here? And while you’re at it, chase Dumitre Brown – do we even know his... his original name, for that matter. What are you smirking at?”

“You Sir. You’re so old fashioned and flustered, you were going to say maiden name, I can tell.”

“Oi!” Lewis grabbed a screwed up piece of paper and tossed it at James, who caught it and smirked again. “You. None of your cheek. Get me a cup of tea and then chase up those people on all databases. I know they’re not on the PNC; Julie’s already done that for me. The victim, the boy, his sister and niece.”

*

Dimi opened the door to the sergeant from the night before, this time with an older, slighter shorter man. Well, you’d have to be shorter than the blond one. He was taller than Dimi, who at six one was used to people around him being shorter. The Inspector had startling blue eyes, twinkling quite friendlily, despite the circumstances, and a trustworthy northern English accent. Dimi liked him immediately.

They came in and sat down exceedingly close together on the sofa, the Inspector chatting to Crina while the blond picked up her rag doll and looked at it and then stared at the TV, showing even more Cbeebies, while Dimi made them coffee.

Once the coffee and Crina’s milk was on the coffee table, the Inspector gave a nod to the sergeant who stood up and held out his hand.

“Could you show me around outside please Crina? It would be really helpful if you could tell me who lives in what caravan and show me the fields and the houses, all the ways in and out of this field apart from through the cottage drive.”

Crina stood up and nodded solemnly. Sergeant Hathaway opened the door for her and she jumped out, followed by him in one long legged stride.

“He has immensely long legs,” Dimi caught himself murmuring without really thinking about it.

“Yes he has,” agreed Inspector Lewis. “And he’ll be fine with kids. He’s a big one himself. I thought the idea of interviewing you now was she wouldn’t be around.”

“Sorry. Yes, I’m sorry. She’s been excluded. Again.”

“What? She’s such a sweet kid. Well behaved. Hardly said a word, not demanding attention or whatnot. Sometimes, bereaved kids, well, they attention seek, don’t they?”

Dimi shrugged. “Perhaps. She knew her mother was ill for a long time. We – Mick and I – try to give her security, normality. She didn’t have that with Tatiana and Walli.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I have some questions to ask. Firstly, you are Dumitre Kobori from a village just outside Astra, Brasov, Romania, reported missing by your mother in 2001, following your sister’s disappearance only six months before. Is that right? She went to get a job, in England, as an au pair, but never phoned or wrote. You went to Bucharest, phoned your mother to say you had a lead, that you thought she’s been tricked and there was no au pair job. That you?”

“Yes.” Dimi looked down.

“You come back on the radar three years ago with a legal fight to stop your deportation following your giving evidence in a case against several men in London who were running a porn recording studio and gay brothel. There was snuff stuff live on the internet, I believe, among other stuff.” Lewis sniffed with disapproval. “That you?”

Dimi nodded, looking down and picking at a thread on the cushion of the chair.

“You were trafficked?”

Dimi looked up and glared at Lewis defiantly, “I was enslaved. So was my sister. My mother was the local schoolteacher. I had three brothers and a sister. My sister couldn’t find work and this man came to the village, saying rich people in Paris and London were looking for au pairs to look after their children. It seemed too good to be true. My older brothers worked in my father’s business – he was a builder. They went all over the world to work. I had a place waiting for me at university, modern languages. It kept me sane and alive, I hid how well I spoke English, or Russian or Polish for that matter. It was run by two Poles and a Russian, and they handed us over to Russians with a truck. I told this to the police three years ago.”

“You went looking for your sister, she was... enslaved too, for prostitution.”

“I just wanted them to tell me where they’d taken her. But...”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lewis said gently. “Waleria was enslaved too, but she was Polish?”

“It was before Poland was in the EU. She and Tatiana were on the truck on the same journey.”

“And they stayed together.”

“No, they found each other about five years ago. Tatiana was living in a squat with Crina and a guy called Jaska was pimping her, they were both on heroin. So was Walli, but she got Tatiana away from Jaska and into a bedsit in Oxford, then they set up together, found work in a brothel, because, I think, it was all they knew. When I found her – them, Crina was five and a half and had not been to preschool or school. I made her send her to school. They moved to Abingdon. You know this, yes?”

“And both women were HIV positive?”

“Tatiana died of AIDS, yes, and Crina, it’s why the schools... she was excluded for cutting her hand.”

“And you Dumitre?”

“I’m clean.”

“You walk with a stick, man, you look white as a sheet. You’re not a well man.”

“I have Lupus.”

“Shit. I know that one. It’s painful, right, affects your blood and muscles, makes you tired, hurts all the time. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not AIDS.”

“Is there hope, for the little girl?”

*

“This is where she was dead,” Crina said coldly, pointing to the patch of grass, fenced by police tape. A mound of grass tapered down to a dip in the ground with sparse grass and hard, baked earth. Blood still stained the earth.

“You don’t seem bothered,” James pointed out gently.

Crina shrugged. “She was bad. She made my Mama sick. She hit Mama and me. I’m not sad she’s dead. I just hope she isn’t hitting Mama in heaven or where dead people go. I think they go to be stars but Uncle Mick says they are in a garden with God.”

“I don’t think any of us really know, just somewhere quiet and peaceful where there is no pain,” James said diplomatically. “But I don’t think it’s a place where people hit other people.”

Crina shrugged as if to say, ‘whatever’, and skipped off away from the site of the body towards the wood. James followed.

“Did you hear anything Crina?”

“I heard her earlier. Banging and shouting at Uncle Dimi. She thinks I should live with her. She thinks it is better with her than two men who are married. She thinks I will go weird or something.”

“In what way?”

Crina shrugged. “They have sex with lots of men. I might be young but I’m not stupid. And they need medicine against the law. How is that better than my Uncles who have money and love me and don’t even smoke cigarettes or drink alcohol?” Crina scowled at James’ cigarette. He held it behind his back.

“You seem to know a lot for a little girl. I’m not sure I knew the words sex or alcohol when I was six.”

“But I suppose you are like the boys and girls at all the schools I’ve been to, mummies and daddies or step mummies and step daddies and not thinking they do things. They do it with men when I’m there; I see it. If when I am a big girl I want to marry other girl it is their fault not my Uncles. It is disgusting. Like pigs or dogs. I am not sorry she is dead. Or Mama really.”

“I don’t think I was that innocent, either,” James said slowly, “I just didn’t know the words. Are you always so angry?”

“No. I watch TV, I play, I like to draw pictures. I’m just a kid. Do you think Uncle Dimi killed her?”

“Do you?”

“I know he didn’t. He was asleep on the floor. After she stopped shouting we opened the chocolate cake we were saving for when Uncle Mick came home and put on my Peppa Pig DVD really loud and he fell asleep.”

“Did you hear anything? Look out of the window?”

“I hear a car. I see lights go across our caravan on the inside.” Crina shrugged. “Nothing. Might be the fat man or the posh man come home, or the girl. I showed you their caravans. Fat Simon parks his van outside and Posh Tim and Stupid Sarah park theirs at the cottage.”

“What about the path to the woods at the back?”

“The woods go on to the big road and dump, I don’t think anyone would walk from there. People from the village come through the field to walk dogs in the wood.” 

James lit another cigarette from the first.

“You will die of that,” said Crina.

*

“Thanks for the coffee,” Lewis said, standing, as Hathaway returned with Crina. She picked up her rag doll and rabbit and walked off to her bedroom without a word.

“You’ve not asked me much about last night,” Dimi said, sounding mystified.

“You look tired, and to be honest, all this background detail will be of more help. Presumably you saw the same as Jones.”

“Yes, I suppose, but...”

“And there’s time Mr Brown. As I said, there is no one else, so if you don’t object...”

“I said not.”

“Fine, you have a rest, get you and the kid lunch and someone will pick you up and take you to the mortuary at three. We’ll talk more then.”

After the door was closed on the two detectives and they began their walk back to the car Hathaway grumbled,

“I suppose I’ll be babysitting again.”

“If you don’t mind James. I’ll do it if you object, you can do the ID and interview.”

James thought of that young life, forced into prostitution, and talking to Dumitre, who made him uncomfortable for some reason. Crina seemed an odd little girl, but she was okay. She didn’t want to use him as a punch bag; unlike the last girl Lewis had him babysitting. And she was human. Definitely a bonus.

Hathaway’s phone rang as they got in the car. “Hathaway.”


	3. Chapter 3

“So this is where she lived. Seems nice.”

“Have you ever read ‘Notes from a Small Island’?”

“What’s that, some posh...”

“No, it’s a travelogue by Bill Bryson. What I was going to say is all he could say about Abingdon was they have the neatest, cleanest council estates in the country.”

“This council, then?”

“Ex council. Yes.” He opened the wrought iron rising sun gate for his boss and they walked up the neat garden path with patchwork lawns and flowerbeds each side and knocked on the door of the red-bricked 1950s semi detached house.

An elderly lady opened the door. Her grey hair was brushed back and held with a plastic clip and she wore a nylon dress.

“Mrs Braithwaite?”

“It’s Ms, dearie, but no, I’m her... friend. How can she help you boys?”

Lewis produced his warrant card, aware Hathaway was doing the same. “I’m Inspector Lewis, this is Sergeant Hathaway. We’re investigating the death of her lodger?”

“Oh. Poor Valerie. Come in boys.”

They followed her through a narrow hallway and into the back room. An equally elderly woman in a red low cut dress in a wheelchair was smoking a slender cigar. The three-piece suite was upholstered in red satin and the walls covered with ornamental china with pictures of kittens and puppies. The huge old-fashioned dresser on one wall was covered with china ‘cute’ animals, angels and fairies. On the opposite wall hung a huge 40inch flat screen TV, showing Loose Women on low. There was a bookcase under the screen full of DVDs, mostly musicals, black and white British movies of the stiff upper lip or the Ealing comedy variety, and at the bottom the whole Emmanuel collection, along with some less well known, more explicit 1970s porn movies. On the glass coffee table was a bottle of gin, one of tonic and two glasses. The whole room was a fug of cigar and cigarette smoke. Hathaway just knew he was blushing again just by the way Lewis was smirking at him.

“The police Camille.”

“Oh. Right. About poor little Valerie. Please sit down gentlemen. Can I offer you a drink?”

“Not on duty,” Lewis said firmly, regarding the gin with distaste.

“Tea then. Get these gentlemen some tea Iris.”

“Of course.” Iris shambled off in her oversized red carpet slippers. Camille, however, preferred kitten heeled fluffy slippers. Her wheelchair was pink too.

“We did say what we knew about the poor girl to the other chap, the one in the uniform. So attractive. I said as much to Iris. Didn’t I?” she raised her voice.

“Used to be partial to a blond lad in uniform,” Iris yelled from the kitchen and then laughed a throaty laugh before breaking off to hack a smoker’s cough. “Sugar boys?” she yelled once her coughing fit had ended.

“Please. Two for me,” Lewis called back. He looked at his sergeant, whose cheeks were still flushed pink. “And one for me sergeant.”

“I expect he looked rather cute in uniform, too,” Camille said, smiling at Lewis.

“Hadn’t thought about it,” Lewis answered, his brain instantly painting pictures in his mind of James half in, half out of uniform, handcuffs were involved in the mental picture too. He coughed and crossed his legs. He glanced at James, whose pink flush had turned a scarlet red.

“Tea,” Iris said, suddenly appearing with a tray. James leapt to his feet and took the tray. Lewis moved the bottles and glasses to one side to make room. Iris sat on a pouffe in front of Camille’s wheelchair.

“I presume,” Camille began, watching James pour their teas and sugar them, two for his boss and one for himself, “you’ve come to ask me to identify the body again. As I explained to the dishy young constable, I barely saw her. She was my tenant, you see, not my lodger. I do have lodgers, too. They’re all asleep now; they work nights you see. But I own the house next door too, and she lived there. When poor little Tracy was alive with little Katy they had the attic flat, but I moved her down to the downstairs backroom when Tracey passed and the social took little Katy away.”

“This would be Tatiana and Crina?” Lewis clarified.

“Yes, that’s their foreign names, I think.”

“It’s alright Ms Braithwaite, we’ve come about something you said. Something about you hearing a row through the walls. I take it the semis are back to back, so the reverse of this one is next door. So your sitting room here would be next door to her bedsit?”

“That’s right Inspector.”

“Did you see who she had with her?”

“I did,” Iris said. “Well, I think I did. Any road, a man left next door soon after the shouting and crying finished, face as black as thunder.”

“Would you be able to describe him? Had he visited before?”

“I think so. I think he’s been before, back in October and November last year. She said something about being in a research group, he was paying her to talk about her life as a working girl.”

“Working girl?” Hathaway said. 

Lewis looked at him with disbelief. Camille and Iris looked at Lewis. He rolled his eyes at them, “Unbelievable, eh? Young lads.”

Hathaway scowled at Lewis before continuing, “So he wasn’t a punter. He was engaged in – what? Academic research regarding prostitution.”

“People trafficking, wasn’t it Iris?” Camille said. “So many girls are here because they were trafficked and forced these days. In my day you did it coz you wanted to. I take them in, some stay on the game, some try to build up a life of some kind. Most are too ashamed to go home, you see.”

James lowered his eyes and nodded, “I can imagine,” he said quietly.

“So, this is a charity you run here?” Lewis asked.

“I wouldn’t say that Inspector... Lewis is it? Weren’t you Morse’s sergeant?”

“Yeah. Yeah I was.”

“Bad business, that. Three working girls done in, just coz they were in the way. Poor Morse, I knew him when he was a sergeant. He hated not solving a case. How is he, retired I expect?”

“He... died.”

“I’m sorry. He was a decent bloke, for a policeman. No offence, but in those days...”

Lewis held up his hands. “No worries. So...?”

“I’m not registered as a charity, Inspector, nor do I claim to be, but girls know about me, word of mouth, and if they want to get away from some drug addled pimp or they’ve escaped people traffickers, other girls can point them here. About half carry on working, I’d say.”

“Is that how Waleria and Tatiana came to live here?” Hathaway asked.

“Yes,” Camille answered directly. “About three years ago. I think Tracy wanted to get out of the game. They rowed endlessly. Then Tracy got sick and Valerie got herself tested.”

“What about the little girl? What about Crina?”

“I believe so.”

Lewis drained his tea and got up suddenly. “Thank you Ms Braithwaite Ms...?”

“Luton.”

“Ms Luton. If you’re happy with it, I’ll get an identity artist to come visit you with their laptop and stuff, and you can try to give us a picture of this man who visited last night. Is that alright?”

“Happy to,” Camille smiled. Iris nodded, beaming. They watched Lewis jerk his head in the direction of the door and the young sergeant leap to his feet and follow. Some thing obviously unsettled the blond, and it was equally obvious to the old women that the Inspector fancied his sergeant rotten. The young man was harder to read, but they doubted he was straight, but he strangely was very naive for a gay man in his late twenties, early thirties. He ‘acted like a blinking monk straight from a monastery’ Iris concluded when they discussed the two men after they left, before she got up to cook their tea. Iris had been Camille’s maid for over thirty years, and they had an easy comfortableness with one another. They knew what their neighbours all thought, but it didn’t bother them. Better they thought them a lesbian couple than two retired pros, especially since the occupation of half their lodgers and tenants would no doubt shock even more!

*

“You would think social service would have got involved, wouldn’t you?” James snapped as soon as they were out of the house.

“What?”

“Two mothers, HIV positive, prostitutes, the girl not even going to school. What was the GP thinking, not referring?” he snapped, before opening the passenger door and sitting down and folding his legs to hug them.

“It’s none of our business. And anyway, how do we know what the situation was for that girl, eh? Her Mam would have loved her, come what may. She was trafficked into prostitution, they probably got the girls addicted to better control them. It happens. I bet the kid was an accident too. Condoms fail, you know?” Lewis said calmly.

James stared at him at the mention of condoms. His boss didn’t tend to do this sort of thing, he tended to trail of, leave words unsaid. They were both so good at that.

“Put your seatbelt on. Tell me what’s wrong or not, but we’re going now. We’re meeting Dumitre Brown at the JR at three thirty and I want lunch.” He revved the car and squealed the tyres as he did a U-turn on the suburban road. 

James looked at him harshly, “What?”

“You’re in a weird mood.”

“Yeah. So are you,” James retorted sharply.

Lewis’ phone began to ring.

*

James went out for sandwiches and coffee while Lewis had to see Innocent. Innocent looked up as Lewis was shown into her office by yet another young, attractive secretary. Innocent seemed to get through secretaries at an alarming rate. Lewis didn’t like to speculate the reasons.

“Ah, Lewis. There you are.”

“Yes, Ma’am. You sent for me.”

“Initial forensic reports on the large piece of flint found at the scene.” Innocent tossed a folder across the desk at Lewis. It landed with a slap in front of him. He picked it up and flicked through it.

“Blood and hair a match for the type. Obviously we’ll have to wait for the DNA for an absolute match, but it’s fairly certain it was used to strike her. Although, I understand her neck was broken?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Two blows to the head, Laura tells me. One here –” Lewis pointed to the back of his head, “- a sharp wound, small indentation and graze, from what I could see of her. And here –” he pointed to his forehead, the same side as the injury high on the back of her head, the right side “- more of a blunt trauma, more force. It’s the one that bled more – caused most of the blood at the scene. She was lying face down in her blood, Ma’am.”

“Talking of head trauma – Robbie, what the hell happened to you? Was that in the line of duty? Why wasn’t I informed?”

“Bashed my head on the kitchen cupboard, didn’t I?”

“How?”

“Emptying the dishwasher, Ma’am.”

“Now, that’s the kind of silly accident that we all do, especially when we’re tired. You take care, Robbie. Now, this is what I called you for.” Innocent tapped the folder in front of Lewis. “Look at the finger prints.”

“Ma’am?” Lewis picked up the file and flipped through the report until he found the relevant page. He frowned and looked confused, and then, glancing at Innocent, he held out his hand over the prints, placing his own fingertips on them. He looked at Innocent, appalled, and she stood and walked around the desk to hold her own fingers over the prints. “They’re... they’re...” Lewis stumbled out.

“Small? Yes Robbie, I know. About the size of a child between five and seven, so I’ve been reliably informed.”

“Could a child...? Would a child...?”

“We need more evidence,” Innocent replied briskly. “Procedure, Inspector. We cannot speculate until we have all the facts. I understand you’re seeing Dr. Hobson this afternoon? The other head injury, which might not be the flint, was the cause of the blood loss, and then there is the broken neck...”

“Yeah, but could a child have been playing earlier with it and the murderer wore gloves? Was there any form of glove print on it?” Lewis looked at the report.

“God, I sincerely hope so.”

“So do I Ma’am, but...” Lewis stood up and came behind his boss and, ducking down so he was considerably lower than her, raised his hand and mimed hitting her, “if I strike you from behind, you could fall, bash your head on the hard ground and break your neck.”

“Meaning manslaughter. Or accidental death. Oh God, I sincerely hope not. Let’s wait for Laura’s report before we speculate further.”

*

Over a ham and cheese sandwich and a cup of tea in their office Lewis silently passed Hathaway the folder and watched him read through it thoroughly, finally getting to the prints and, carefully placing his chicken mayo next to his coffee first, look up alarmed at Lewis, a slight frown furrowing his forehead as his eyes shone with sadness. He did as Innocent and Lewis had done, he placed his fingertips over those of the prints lifted from the stone with blood and hair from the victim. He looked back up at Lewis, his eyes full of puzzlement and unhappiness.

“Of course,” he said when he finally spoke, “we don’t know if it is the rock that caused her death.”

“We’ll know more after we’ve seen Laura, which should be –” Lewis glanced at his watch “- about now.”

*

Lewis and Hathaway met with Hobson in her examining room at just gone two thirty. An orderly was pushing the trolley with Waleria’s covered body out of the room towards the mortuary chapel as they arrived. Hobson was washing the exam table with a hose and disinfectant.

“You’re late. You’ve missed the action again I’m afraid.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. Interviewing her neighbours in Abingdon.”

“Anything useful?” Hobson asked, biting the inside of her cheek as she realised she was imitating Robbie.

“Maybe,” Lewis replied non-commitally, not noticing or choosing to ignore the tease. “Tell me about the girl?”

“Her neck was snapped. Someone was intending to strangle her, from the bruising patterning. We have defence wounds on the hands. Skin and blood from the assailant under her fingernails – hopefully enough for a DNA match. It’s a fair bet that whoever killed her will have a scratch or two on their hands, maybe even their face. She had long manicured nails with fake nail extensions – mostly snapped off in the struggle and her fall. Somehow she seemed to have been pulled forward in the struggle and hit her right temple on the rocky ground, but whether it was the neck snapping that killed her, I’m not sure. From the blood loss I would favour the fall causing the break rather than the attempt to strangle her, but the assailant, if he – and this would have to be a he, however equal opportunities kind of girl I am – unless we’re talking some six foot muscle bound weight training kind of girl! – it would be a he.” Hobson stopped to stare at Lewis. He made a go on gesture with a slight shake of his head. Hobson glanced to James, leaning on the back wall, biting his thumbnail. She went on. “Well, he could have snapped her neck, let go and she fell forward, bashing the skull and bled out as she was already dying of the broken neck. Not very pleasant for the poor girl, either way.”

“A sad ending to a sad little life,” Lewis mused, thinking on his discussion with Dumitre. 

Hathaway, however, asked a more pertinent question, “So, it wasn’t the bang on the back of her head that killed her?”

“It’s possible,” Hobson allowed. “If the neck bruising was from earlier on, and there was a bruise to her hip, which could have been caused in an earlier struggle or equally by stumbling into a random piece of furniture. She’d consumed a fair bit of alcohol and eaten very little in the hours before her death. In fact, her stomach contents were mostly Vodka and semen, to be exact, and some sweets. Peppermints.”

“We know she was a prostitute,” Lewis supplied.

“So it is possible?” Hathaway pushed.

“Yes. It’s possible. I just said. The sharp bang on the back of her head could cause enough momentum for her to fall forward, smashing her forehead and breaking her neck as she hit the ground.”

“So we could be looking for two separate assailants?” Lewis clarified.

“Could be. Or the same person, trying twice, perhaps? The bruising on the neck certainly happened within hours of the cuts on the head and the broken neck. In fact there is no way of accurately measuring whether the two knocks on the head happened within seconds of each other or hours apart. I’m sorry I can’t be of more clarity regarding the three separate injuries. Why are you so keen to pin this down?” She looked from Lewis to Hathaway, watching their glances to one another, sensing... something. It was Hathaway, with another unfathomable look to his Inspector, who finally asked the question, thus at the same time answering Hobson’s.

“Could a child, a small child, hit an adult on the head with a rock with sufficient force to cause her to fall forward and break her neck and cut open her head?”

“Unlikely. Except...” Hobson trailed off, watching the two men’s anguished expressions. “Robbie, what is this?”

“Please Laura. Except what?”

“Except for the fact that the woman, that Waleria Nowicka, was very slight, less that seven stone, was half starved and drunk, and was wearing almost six inch stiletto boots on uneven, cracked dried earth with long, wet grass. A slight knock might be all it took for her to stumble forward with the force needed. If she were exceptionally unlucky with how she landed, with the force she hit the ground. She was laid with her head next to a slight mound, wasn’t she, with some kind of rocky ground beside it? From what I remember of the scene.”

“Yes,” Hathaway replied briskly.

Lewis sighed heavily and swore under his breath.

“Are you going to tell me now what this is about?”

Lewis looked to Hathaway who replied abruptly, “The stone with the victim’s blood has one set of prints, either fingers or gloves, and those prints are a child’s fingerprints. A child no older than seven, perhaps a small eight, but certainly no older.”

Hobson suddenly looked like they felt – world weary and heartsick.

*

Once alone and walking through the bleak, cold, grey corridor back to more public parts of the hospital Lewis grabbed hold of Hathaway’s arm to stop him.

“James.”

“Sir?”

“Are you okay about staying with the girl while we get an ID and I interview Dumitre Brown?”

“I said fine, Sir, and I can...”

“No!” James looked alarmed at his boss’ harsh tone. “Sorry, but no James,” Lewis went on more gently. “You can’t ask questions, you can’t fish, you can’t lead the conversation in anyway. Any thing you try to get out of her will prejudice the case. We have to do this one completely by the book. Okay?”

“Sir.”

“I mean it James. If you ask, hint or lead now any defence lawyer can pick it and later statements and evidence apart. You know that.”

“Yes Sir, I know.” James sighed. “What will you do?”

“I’m going to get him to do the formal ID, get him some tea and sit down and ask all the usual stuff, and then, after I’m clear he hasn’t a clue, I shall ask his permission, as her guardian, if we can bring her in and take her prints and statement. Get on to Julie now and make sure she’s in the station. And tell her we’ll need a child and family social worker on call, and to see if she can get our child psychology officer to the station asap to wait on standby. Shit, James, I’ve never had to do this.”

“I know, Robbie. Nor have I. Not a suspect. We’ve had the training, but... that’s what the play therapist is for.”

“Aye, I know. And much as I appreciate the thought, love, don’t call me Robbie at work.”

“Sorry Sir. And of course, I can call Julie now. But what will you do if he won’t give permission?”

Lewis blew out his breath in an aggressive huff. “Let’s hope he does, coz I don’t want to do this the hard way.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Yes, that is Walli – um, Waleria Nowicka,” Dumitre said, nodding slightly, staring and staring through the glass window. “She looks peaceful now, clean, not like... not like...” A tear slid silently down his cheek. Lewis nodded at the mortuary assistant who covered Waleria’s face again, and then he gently put a hand to Dumitre’s shoulder.

“A cup of tea, Mr. Brown, or coffee if you prefer, and a bit more of a chat. I do need to ask you about last night and yesterday evening.”

“Of course. Um. Yes. Of course.” Dumitre pushed away the tear with his finger, absently. “Tea would be nice. I’ve been in England so long, you see, I’ve...”

“Gone native?” asked Lewis, trying to lighten the mood a little.

*

Si was in his caravan, watching the torrential rain as it pounded down on wood and caravans and his white van. All it seemed to do was rain these last few weeks. What had happened to the summer? 

He was on the phone, listening to Sergei, his boss’ younger brother and translator, give instructions on what to do with ‘the boy’.

“He must be silenced,” Sergei was saying. “Yuri wants this. We know he gave evidence about those who paid for him. The police must not find him.”

Worriedly Si said, “They have him now. Nothing to do with you, but I watched a pig come fetch him up an hour ago. Him and that brat.”

There was a rapid exchange in Russian and then Sergei said, “What the fuck is going on?”

“That bint, the prossie you told me to put the frighteners on. One of Yelton’s Polish girls?”

“Waleria, the one Anton pays for now? You get the addresses?”

“Yeah, I did. Anton and the boy. But, the thing is, she’s showed up dead, like.”

“Dead? Did you...?”

“I told you, I don’t kill nobody, and I don’t hurt girls. Not if I can help it.”

There was another frantic conversation in Russian.

“We need money Si, money. We are in the shit and we need good lawyer. Money, not trouble. Money and silence. You better have not got carried away or had an accident with this girl when you put on the ‘frighteners’. We do not need to know if you have. You just get us the money and make any witness keep their mouths shut!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Si said placidly, trying to calm Sergei down. Personally he thought all the money in the world to buy the best lawyers wouldn’t alter anything. They could bury years of evidence of people trafficking, enforced prostitution and drug smuggling all they liked, even all the other violent crimes across Europe and the UK, CPS only really cared about the one they were in remand for now. “Well,” he went on, “I got your money from your London contacts, like I said I would.”

“You give to our lawyer. And silence the boy.”

“Scare him to dead,” Yuri hissed in heavily accented English into the phone, “but not to kill. But you to kill...” He began another exchange with his brother in their mother-tongue.

“Yuri say if you not kill, you find someone who does and keep back some of the lawyer money to pay. You must eliminate...”

“No!” snapped Si. “No way!” and he hung up, shaking, as crossing these Russian bosses wasn’t a good idea. But no way was he killing...

*

Hathaway had planned to take Crina down to the play park opposite the Children’s Hospital at the bottom of the hill, but it was raining again. Instead he bought her a sketch book, a colouring book and a pack of felt tip pens and took her to the volunteer run cafe on Level 2 at the end of the main corridor of the JR. 

Crina demanded ‘pink milk’ which Hathaway took to mean strawberry milkshake and he joined a very long queue of staff, visitors and patients to get Crina her drink and himself a coffee.

When he returned Crina had covered a whole sheet of plain paper from her pad with tiny red hands as well as small red stick people chasing lots of tiny red animals that looked a bit like antelope, deer, big cats and elephants, although at the second look Hathaway guessed them to be woolly mammoths. She was currently tracing around her left hand with the same red felt tip, her tongue sticking out slightly with her concentration.

“Interesting art work,” Hathaway said. “My nieces and goddaughters, they would draw fairies and princesses, maybe flowers and trees.”

“Yes. They would. Boring English girls always do. I’ve been to lots of schools. I know.”

“What is all this then Crina?”

“It is the oldest art people ever did. This should be blown. Red ochre paint in the mouth blown over the hands. Only girls and ladies. Nearly a million years ago. To make the shape of the hand. It means something special to them. They went into caves to paint with their mouths with paint they make. Red felt tips is all I ever get,” she grumbled after her astounding little monologue. 

Hathaway supposed it was no different to some small boys and their obsessions with dinosaurs. “How do you know about all this?” he asked her.

“I have book. Uncle Mick gave it to me. I think it was his when he was little. The book is old. It has stories about little children in Stone Age – all Stone Ages. Neolithic. Mesolithic. And before. Long before. Before we were proper people. Called hominids. I am interested, so Uncle Mick and Uncle Dimi gets me more books, big books, lots of pictures and facts, for my birthday. I like knowing about times like that.”

“What about school Crina?”

“School history is boring. All Tudors and Henry VIII’s wives. Who cares how many wives he had? Pah! And dressing up as Victorian children. People come and you have to play at being a Victorian child for a day as if they all went to school and not down mines and up chimneys. I did it four times. Five schools and four times these same people came and we play pretend for a day. Auntie Walli, she... she helped Uncle Dimi make me Victorian girl dress. It is good, with one of those white pinafore things and everything. Auntie Walli likes to... used to like to sew.” Crina paused, scowling, before saying firmly, “I like the Stone Age. We were all the same – no English or Scottish, not Romanian or Polish or Russian. Just people. I like it. I like the fact it was all wood and stone. I like to try things. One books teaches how they lived, how they made things...” Crina suddenly picked up her milkshake

Hathaway itched and itched to ask about the flint. Maybe she had planned to try to make flint tools and the prints were days old, or at least hours old, and a complete coincidence. Then again, there was the blood and no other prints. But he knew he couldn’t ask.

Crina looked up from drinking, a pink foam moustache on her upper lip. “I tell you what I like. What do you like?”

“Music. Chamber music. World music.”

“Is that classical stuff?”

“Yes. Mostly.”

“Boring.”

“And I play guitar.”

Crina looked unimpressed.

“In a band,” Hathaway added.

Now Crina looked up. “Are you a pop star as well as a policeman then?”

“Not quite. Not yet,” Hathaway added mischievously. 

Crina looked up at him, eyes as big as saucers, taking him quite seriously at his word.

*

“Yes, she came. I didn’t let her in. She was drunk and Crina was scared.”

“What time was this?”

“It would have been before seven, maybe six thirty? Crina had had her shower and was watching Cbeebies Bedtime Hour. I was about to make her cocoa.”

“What did she want Dimi?”

“The same as always when she is drunk.”

“And what is that?”

“Crina. She says Tatia wanted her to have Crina. It’s not true. Tatia loved Walli as a friend – a comrade in arms, yes? For all they had been through. But she wanted better for Crina. She saw a lawyer and a social worker in the Hospice, she drew up papers. She made me promise, when she die, that I...” Dimi broke off.

“You were with her, when she... died?”

Dumitre looked a moment at the sympathetic policeman, confused by the... wistfulness, envy, something, in his voice. “Yes,” he replied sadly. “She was holding my hand so tightly, because she hurt so much and she made me promise that Mick and I would always be there for Crina and then she... and then she... She let out a rattling kind of breath and her hand just fell from mine and she... she just wasn’t there anymore.” Dimi had been looking down, watching his hands curled around the disposable teacup. Lewis had brought him to a quiet corner of the restaurant on Level Three, James having sent a text to say he was on Two with Crina.

Dimi suddenly looked up. “She was at peace. But Walli? When I found her she looked... startled? Not scared, nothing scared Walli, but surprised? As whoever did it had surprised her. She did not think that this person was dangerous, I think.”

“Talk me through that evening Dimi. Please. From when you heard Waleria at the door to when you found the body at... just gone eleven?” Lewis had to check his notebook, something he had rarely had to do for years, but he had had other things on his mind that night.

“I don’t make cocoa. I go to comfort Crina. She is crying and pleading with me not to open the door. I think Walli used to hit Crina and Tatiana when she was like this, drunk, aggressive, angry.”

“Did you call out? Tell her to go away?”

“No. Nothing. I pulled Crina down and we lay on the floor and then I held her tightly and rocked her, sitting low down. That way we are below the below the line of the windows.”

“How long did she stay knocking?”

“A long time. Cbeebies had been off air for a long time by the time she left. She banged on the door and rattled it to see if it was locked, pulled at it to try to force it open then went around the back to try the fire exit in Mick and my bedroom and then walked around the whole van banging on all the windows.”

“What did she say?”

“The usual. About wanting Crina, that my sister said she should have Crina.” Dimi suddenly looked up again. “Actually, no. First she was shouting in broken English or the usual threats of going to social services about my illness and being gay, and then the empty lawyer threats and then...”

“Then?” prompted Lewis.

“Just before she gave up and left she spoke in Polish, quietly, through the door.”

“What did she say Dimi? Translation please.”

“I’m not sure, she was quieter and Crina was still sobbing and shaking in my arms. Something about someone knowing something about me and she was sorry.”

“What do you think she meant?”

“My evidence shut down a lucrative porn business Inspector. It was mostly legal, but they had me – they owned me! They could make me do anything, have men do anything to me! I was powerless. They charged what they liked to rich men to rent me... I should think a lot of men are angry with me, and a lot more don’t want to be associated with what they did to me.”

“What... what was so special about you, that the traffickers... sold you to...? I don’t want to be sexist, or do I mean homophobic, but I thought these gangs dealt in girls.”

“I look like... I looked like a younger version of... the way they cut my hair, clothes they put me in, make up on, I looked like... like someone famous then, back ten years ago, someone powerful...” Dimi removed his black-rimmed spectacles, held his long, matted, greasy hair of his face and tilted his chin. In the light from the window from the roof garden, despite the three or four days worth of stubble and smudged black eyeliner at least two days on, Lewis caught a likeness to someone long since disappeared from public life however much his legacy lived on.

“Bloody hell!”

“Yes. ‘Satirical porn’ they called it. Then he disappeared and my profitability disappeared as well. That’s when the snuff stuff started.” Dimi shuddered. “No doubt someone would have eventually paid enough to see me killed not just raped and tortured, but... but Mick, you see, he saved me.”

“How?”

“His other grandmother, his Scottish one, she passed away and left him her Highland croft. He sold it to a holiday developer and he... he bought me. He had been in the industry you see, combination of alcohol and gambling made him desperate for money, but unlike the other ... actors? Well, he took an interest in me, took time to know me, to realise that I was controlled, that I was not free, that I was owned! I had thought we had fallen in love under the bastards noses, they paid off his debts so maybe they owned him a bit too, but then he disappeared and I didn’t know...” Dumitre stopped himself. “Sorry. I don’t know why I tell you this.” He lowered his head, tears splashing on his cup and the table.

“It’s okay. Maybe you needed to. And anything maybe relevant, anything at all at this stage. Another tea?”

“Please.”

When he returned Lewis changed the subject. “Walli and your sister, they had the more usual tragic tale of tricked girls, trafficked into prostitution, didn’t they?”

“Yes.”

“The men that brought you all, it’s a long time ago. Over ten years. Would they want you silenced now?”

“They brought so many. It seems unlikely, doesn’t it? Walli made a lot of people angry, but how she... how she...?” Dimi broke off, his voice cracked.

“Let’s go back to that evening then. You didn’t open the door to her and she left, say seven thirty, seven forty five, no later than eight? And as far as you knew, she had left the field and the cottage grounds to somehow get back to Abingdon? But she didn’t have a car, did she?”

“No. It takes about an hour to cut through the wood and fields past the Haycock’s to get to the nearest bus stop, and half an hour more on that is you follow the lane around. She had high heels and...” Dimi shrugged. “If she missed the last bus...?”

“She might have come back to you?” Lewis demanded.

“Yes, she may have. Or planned to, before...”

“But you didn’t see her, hear her, until you found her body?”

Dumitre looked straight into Lewis’ eyes. “No,” he said levelly.

“So. Let’s go back. She left, Crina was still crying and then what?”

“Well, obviously I reassured her Auntie Walli was gone. It was past Crina’s bedtime and there was no way I could just put her to bed with cocoa and a story like normal so I opened the chocolate cake we had been saving for when Mick comes back tomorrow and put on her favourite DVD. I got the quilt from my room, and the pillows too, and we snuggled up. She grew drowsy, but I think I crashed out first. When I woke it was almost completely dark outside and Crina was snoring.”

“What did you do then?”

“I switched off the DVD, put the mugs and plates in the sink and the cake in the fridge and carried her through to bed. When I picked up my quilt I remembered the text Mick sent me that morning.”

“Text?”

“To say he’d left the water on in the cottage and could I turn it off. What with Crina being excluded and Walli...”

“Okay. So that’s why you went out of the caravan and found her.”

“Yes.”

“Right. I’m sorry Mr. Brown, but right now I need to ask a couple of questions, alright?”

“Alright.” Dumitre looked completely mystified.

“Crina. She wears pyjamas?”

“Yes.”

“Were her... Were the bottoms wet? Muddy? And her feet? Dirty? When you put her to bed?”

“Not that I noticed. No. Why? What is this?”

“Any stains of any kind – mud, grass, anything – on her pyjamas that you noticed? This morning?”

“No! Why?”

“It’s been suggested to us by your neighbours Mr. Brown that when Mick is away and you’re asleep, maybe ill, Crina sneaks out at night. Are you aware of this?”

“What is this? Are you social services? I thought you were investigating a murder? We’re miles from anywhere! She’s perfectly safe, what could happen?” Dumitre’s eyes widened and he clapped his hand over his mouth as he thought about Walli’s body.

“This is a murder investigation. If the social workers visited every family who’s child snuck out at night at some point they’d have no time for the serious stuff. My own two were known to, at times, in the summer holidays. Just to play in the garden, it still being light. I’m not here to judge you Dumitre, believe me. I’m sure you do your best for your niece. Now, is it possible?”

“Sarah told me, she’s seen Crina climb trees or play with her rocks after nine when I thought she’d been asleep since seven. Yes, I do sleep lots when the pain is bad, I get so tired...”

“I’m not judging you, okay? Now, you say you probably fell asleep before her?”

“Yes.”

“So Crina could have snuck outside?”

“Yes, I suppose...”

“And maybe, like you say, Waleria missed the bus and came back?”

“It’s possible, but surely...”

“Surely what?”

“Crina would have woken me up. Or Walli would banged on the window.”

“Mr. Brown, I need to formally ask your permission to bring in your niece, Crina Kobori, to the station, to take her fingerprints and a DNA sample, and probably also to question her.”

“What?”

“I can do it without your permission, but that would require a court hearing and a custody order. You don’t want that, do you?”

“What? What are you saying?”

“We would like Crina’s DNA and fingerprints – purely for elimination purposes, you understand?”

“What? What are you saying? That Crina...? That my little girl...? Killed...?”

“No. I’m saying we have to eliminate her from our enquiries. She is your ward, isn’t she? Not officially a ‘looked after’ child in your foster care?”

“No. Mick and I are her legal guardians. We’re in the process of adopting.”

“Then I need your permission Mr. Brown.”

“Questions, you said? You mean interrogate!” Dumitre looked panicked. Lewis reminded himself the lad would have grown up under a police state before the revolutions in 1989.

“Ask questions, yes, not interrogate. We don’t interrogate adults, let alone wee kids. Every force employs a special child psychologist specialising in play therapy for all child witnesses under eight. And a parent or guardian must be present. Unfortunately, I need what you told me taken down as a formal statement, so you had better call your Mick and tell him whatever the job, however much money he’ll lose, to leave Devon immediately and head for the station on St Aldate’s. That is, if I have your permission?”

“You think... You think...?”

Lewis sighed. “There is a child’s set of prints on the possible murder weapon.”

Dumitre hung his head. Lewis thought he looked defeated, as if this were the final straw in his appalling, miserable life. “Yes,” he said, “yes. Now?”

“Now. Yes.”

*

Lewis left Dumitre to compose himself and to phone his husband and called his sergeant.

“James?”

“Sir?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m outside the toilets on Level 2 waiting for the little madam. And Sir, Hooper called. A taxi driver turned up after the appeal on the local radio for information. He took Waleria out to the hamlet. Hooper’s taking...”

“Never mind that! We have permission, but we’re waiting for the step Uncle, or whatever he is. Dumitre, I’d stake my reputation on, is entirely innocent, but procedurally he’s still a suspect.”

“Child play therapist on standby in Reading Sir. She can be with us in under an hour.”

“Well, give her an ETA of four hours, alright? And is Julie around? I want Julie to do the prints and DNA, not Sophie. She’ll alarm the girl with her chatter.”

“Julie’s at the station Sir. How did he take it?”

“Like the bottom just dropped out of his world. Poor sod.”

“Well, er... Hi Crina. We are going to meet Inspector Lewis and your uncle by the lifts.”

“I hear you sergeant. We’re on our way.”

“Are we going home now? Are you taking us or do we get to go in a proper police car, like coming here?”

“Um. No. We need to go to a proper police station now. In the Inspector’s car. It’s still a proper police car you know, it’s just....” James squatted down and whispered, “it’s in disguise.”

“How?” Crina asked, curious.

“It has a secret light and siren. I’ll show you.”

“Cool!” Crina grabbed James’ hand and she skipped up the corridor to meet her uncle and the Inspector.


	5. Chapter 5

Si was following Anton Milyutin from his college after waiting outside for some half an hour or more. The porter had given him a couple of curious glances but the first time Si had looked up with what he hoped was suitable vacant expression towards the coach station as if he were waiting for a person or a bus and the second time he bent down to do up his trainer lace.

Following Milyutin was easy in terms of not being seen, but it was touch and go a few times when Si lost sight of his target. The huge July crowds of tourists and language school students gave him plenty of cover, it being earlier enough in July for there still to be post-grad students and school kids. At one moment he got caught up in a crocodile of local primary school kids heading down the Broad as they crossed from George Street. Si panicked for a moment before he caught sight of the tall Russian, black gown billowing out, caught up among a group of Chinese teenagers with matching fluorescent pink and blue backpacks. He had thought Milyutin was going down the Turl, but no, he carried on, losing the language school students as Si lost the school kids as they crossed the road, probably heading for the University Museum he guessed – he’d loved the dinosaur bones when he was a kid, and it was obviously something a teacher still did with a hot, bored, tired class of ten year olds near the end of term. They had some models and anitromics now, he remembered, he had been more blown away than his nephew a couple of weeks ago – stuff for the BBC Walking With Dinosaurs series. It had been so cool.

For a moment he’d lost his sight of Milyutin again, thinking of his childhood and innocent things, but the Roschenkovs did not pay him to think of dinosaurs. He was lucky, as striding quickly, oblivious to his surrounding, the tall academic literally tripped over a woman sitting in her wheelchair at the bottom of the steps of the Sheldonian. The moments it took to regain his balance and utter a presumed apology to the woman and the angry looking teenage girl in a sundress and no shoes allowed to Si to catch up to a few paces behind as Milyutin turned to go down Catte Street.

They were able to continue like this all the way down into Radcliffe Square, Si a few paces behind, Milyutin blithely unaware of his tail, passing the Camera and about a hundred gaping tourists and into The Vaults. Si had no choice to follow him and order himself a tea, sitting three tables away in the garden as Milyutin ordered himself an iced tea and a lemon sponge cake and began to smoke. He was soon joined by two earnest girls in short skirts and sandals, one with a slogan tee shirt and the other with a vest top and scarf around her neck. These were obviously post grad students and they began an incomprehensible discussion on something to do with pre-determination of circumstances and moral choices.

Si sighed into his tea.

*

Ngoti and Mercer were also fed up, trudging up the drive to the field with the three mobile homes. Although it was currently sunny in the centre of Oxford, eight miles away to the west it was pouring with rain yet again. Ngoti had watched, impressed, as Sophie had removed her pumps and taken out bright pink flowered wellies from the boot and pulled them on. “I always hope to have to put them on in some wet, muddy murder scene, but so far Lewis has never let me attend a body. I did in uniform, you know? In Slough.”

Ngoti idly wondered about what Sophie would look like in uniform as he followed her over the squelchy field, his polished shoes slipping in the boggy ground.

Tim welcomed them and made them coffee, apologising for not being in his office that day – Ngoti and Mercer had already been to the Web Design company in St. Giles where he worked, only to be told he was off sick, again – and explaining it was the stress. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Valerie- Waleria! – lying face down in the dirt, blood soaking into the ground. Ngoti made the right sympathetic noises while Mercer blundered into the fact of why they needed to clarify some things with him. Ngoti rolled his eyes at his partner’s lack of tack and accepted the foul instant coffee.

Still, it was productive, as he later reported to his DI on the phone. Tim, with his mind going constantly over what had happened, could clearly remember Dumitre’s reactions and responses. Tim – and by the end of the interview Ngoti – was in no doubt that Dumitre was shocked and surprised by her death.

Lewis later agreed wholeheartedly with Ngoti, having already come to this conclusion from his in depth interviews with the lad. However he did concede Ngoti’s suggestion that Dumitre could have had a black out, it was possible – he had already considered it. Considered and rejected, although he was aware that he could be rejecting the possibility on the fact he liked young Dumitre, and felt more than a little protective of him.

*

Lewis had to first apprise Innocent of the situation that they had a possible suspect, and the suspect was only six years old, and they were most likely looking at accidental death, although the cool way Crina showed no guilt or remorse coupled with the fact she had said to Hathaway that she wasn’t sorry that Waleria was dead was a concern.

“Oh my God Robbie!” Innocent sat down heavily at her desk, slowly and carefully removing each clip-on earring, one at a time. Lewis thought he could see his boss pale under her make-up. He could almost hear her think ‘The Press’ although he felt he was probably being unfair. She was probably as horrified as anyone else, although the press was a scary thought, if they got wind of this. They loved to portray child killers as monsters, not damaged, vulnerable kids.

“She’s with James now,” Lewis said, waiting for Innocent to tell him what to do, he didn’t want this his decision.

“What are your plans?”

“I can’t really interview her. The child specialist is coming over from Reading. We’re waiting for the other uncle to arrive, as Dumitre was on site, so he may prejudice the interview. I had Julie on standby but Crina didn’t take to her, and she thinks we have to interview her uncle. She’s been very keen to stress to me and James, separately, that her uncle didn’t do it, but that’s it. I’m not keen to even to do a swab and dabs until the other uncle is here. He’s driving up from Devon.”

“Devon? Isn’t he in a civil partnership to the child’s blood uncle?”

“Yeah. Work, Ma’am. Restoration work on a church, apparently. He’s a carpenter.”

“Okay. Keep me informed, Inspector. And Robbie –”

“Ma’am?”

“Don’t take this to heart so.”

Lewis sighed. “Ma’am.”

*

Hooper had just finished taking the taxi driver’s statement when the phone rang. The poor sod had been guilt ridden and embarrassed in equal measure. A young family man, he swore he’d never done the like before, but when the girl had pleaded with him to drive him out of Abingdon towards Boars Hill in exchange for a blow job he had been a little shocked but also excited, and more importantly, tempted. By he time she had called back at about eight he had a couple hours to grow to hate himself for betraying his girlfriend and his own view of himself as a decent bloke. Hooper felt sorry for the poor sod, could see where he was coming from. The taxi driver had had another call from the girl at around nine thirty to say she had missed the last bus and could he please, please come and collect her. She would pay him any way he liked, if he waited long enough she would pay him in money, however much he asked. The driver had still refused,

“If I hadn’t, she might be alive now, mightn’t she?” he had asked.

“You don’t know that,” Hooper had soothed, “after all, it might have happened while she was waiting for you. You could have been the one to find her, so maybe you should be glad you didn’t go out there.” But Hooper could see his words hadn’t sunk in and the driver was going to blame himself for a long time.

Now, on the phone, the call transferred from the centre, he spoke to an obnoxious old man who lived opposite Waleria. Hooper knew the type, nosy, interfering busybodies, the type who always started and ran the Neighbourhood Watch schemes.

Hooper listened, taking notes and doodling, as the officious old geezer explained how he had gone away that evening, catching the bus that late afternoon to get a train at 5:43 from Oxford to Leeds, changing at Birmingham, to stay with his daughter and granddaughter, as it was the daughter’s birthday. After this long winded account of how he had only got back late yesterday evening and gone straight to bed and had only just seen an account in the free newspaper just delivered and having asked his next door neighbour had been shocked to realised it was one of the girls from opposite – and did the police know what those girls did? – and had called in. It was his habit, as the chairman of the Neighbourhood Watch, to jot down all number plates unknown to the neighbourhood. At just gone three o’clock in the afternoon a white transit van had pulled up out side and he jotted the number. It had roared off just after five, it had passed him as he walked up the road to the bus stop to Oxford. A man in a grey leather long coat had passed him and they had both looked, startled, at the speed of the white van.

As soon as Hooper had got rid of the old sod he tapped in the number plate. Registered to one Simon Cope who lived...? Shit! He rented one of the caravans from the Browns! He’d have been there when she was killed and earlier he’d visited her. Possibly. Knowing the boss was in a meeting with the Chief Super and the Sarge was babysitting, Hooper took it on himself to visit the other girls in the house. He needed to check whether this Simon Cope was visiting any of them first.

*

Twice Hathaway had tried to leave Crina and Dumitre alone with Julie, and twice Crina had clung to his arm and insisted he stay, that she trusted only him, that only he believed her when she said her uncle didn’t kill Auntie Walli. Since Lewis didn’t want the two of them left alone, as Dumitre couldn’t talk to Crina about why they were really there, Hathaway had no choice to stay as anyway Julie looked appalled at staying with a screaming child who potentially had murdered one woman and Dumitre just looked worn out and sick.

They had sat now for hours in the interview room. Julie sat by the door and periodically left to get more tea and coffee. Crina sat at one end of the table and furnished with plenty of paper and felt tips she drew countless pictures of cave paintings. Dumitre sat to one side of his niece, cold or cooling cups of tea in front of him, drumming his chipped black painted, bitten finger nails and staring, a little out of focus with pain and exhaustion, into space. Hathaway sat at the other end of the table, reading. Once Hathaway had produced his posh looking book to read Julie had fetched her own chick fic and also sat reading, when she wasn’t providing more tea for herself and Dumitre, coffee for the Sarge and milk and biscuits for the child, which she seemed to be doing hourly.

*

Milyutin left for home after just over an hour of his unofficial tutorial. He was pleased with both his students, their dissertations were both progressing nicely and as there was overlap they were working together where necessary with no jealousy or plagiarism. The research they were assisting with was his latest book ‘Swimming the Depths’ about the survivors of enforced trafficking and prostitution, learning to hide as an illegal alien in a strange culture, was also progressing satisfactorily. Their work was saving him the long of tedious groundwork, leaving him time to write the screenplay for a BBC4 documentary on his popular sociology book ‘The Lower Depths’. He had suggested David Tennant or Benedict Cumberbatch to voice it, but the producers had only pretended to consider it.

As he turned into Magpie Lane to head home he yet again appreciated the irony of living around the corner from a street once names Grope Street, and a couple of hundred years ago popularly known as ‘grope c...’ well, something unpleasant! It was typical of the more earthy English of the pre-Victorians, and also typical of the English ironic humour that he loved so much in his students. And so, so descriptive for the street that once was the red light district of Oxford! And, of course, so ironic for the professor who had made his mark on his subject with his sociological research into modern prostitution to live next to this particular street. Of course, the red light district had long since moved east, to Cowley Road.

As he progressed down the narrow cobbled street and the sounds of the traffic, tourists and shoppers receded he began to suspect that he was actually being followed. It began to grow dark as the heavy rain clouds began to pile swiftly above the city centre. As Milyutin turned to face the stocky man in jeans and a dirty blue and black striped Oxford United tee shirt the rain began, falling almost in a single wall of water.

*

Julie hurriedly shoved her book under her chair as Inspector Lewis flung the door open. The sergeant, she noticed, causally laid his book down and looked up attentively. Dumitre also raised his tired head and looked at the officer with swollen eyes. Crina continued to keep her head down, colouring in the shape of Hathaway’s hand in orange, her red felt tip having run out. Julie had been a bit surprised at how small his hand had been, in proportion that was, to how tall a man he was.

“Mr. Brown? Dumitre?”

“Yes Inspector?”

“Is it... that is, do you feel comfortable about leaving Crina here with my officers while I take your statement now.”

“Well, um... Crina, will you be okay here with James and Julie?”

“Can’t Julie go away too?”

“No, I don’t think so darling.”

“Then can we go home Uncle Dimi? I’m bored.”

Dumitre got to his knees in front of Crina and put his arm around her, making sure she was looking into his eyes. “Crina sufletel, I will be as quick as I can, but we need to find who killed Auntie Walli and Inspector Lewis will need us for one or two more things, first, okay? Uncle Mick will be here soon and he can stay with you.”

Crina pushed her uncle out of the way and stood up and shouted up at Lewis, “My Uncle didn’t kill Auntie Walli! He didn’t! I know. I know he didn’t! I tell James! He believes me! Why don’t you believe him?”

“How? How do you know Crina?”

Crina stopped suddenly, looking at the floor. “I just know. He sleep all the time. I just know. Please Mr Lewis, believe me, please.”

Lewis squatted down to look at Crina, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “How do you know Crina?”

“I just DO!” she yelled at him.

“Okay. Okay.” Lewis straightened up, rubbing at the small of his back. “I guess we can do your statement when your partner gets here Mr Brown.”

“No. Do it now. I want to go home!” Crina yelled.

Dumitre shrugged at Lewis and walked towards the door. Lewis touched Dumitre lightly on the elbow and then shoulder before opening the door for him. Crina sat back down and resumed her colouring. Hathaway watched the gentle touches the Inspector gave the witness, a slight frown and down turn to his lips marring his normally passive face. Julie watched her sergeant watching his Inspector, wondering...


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait :(  
> Thanks to the guys of the inspector_Lewis com on Livejournal for the help with the Russian.  
> Contains explicit references to a HIV+ child and internalised and externalised homophobia in the police force.  
> And yes, that is Lewis' esteemed creator making a larger than usual cameo :)

Colin was on his way home from a rather splendid luncheon party held by the Warden of Merton. Of course, in true Oxford style, the lunch had gone on for hours and then Colin had been invited by the Warden’s wife to a post prandial sherry or two. Naturally, she had had an ulterior motive, in this case, as so often, she was fond of his long ago published series of detective books and had some splendid hardback first editions she wished him to sign. He had been happy to oblige, besides the sherry had been excellent.

Now, as he shuffled his way painfully back to the High and a bus home he found himself embroiled in a real life crime, a somewhat sordid and mundane one.

The man was obviously a Fellow from his gown and he had no doubt been set upon by a thug or thugs. He was slumped, semi-conscious, on the wet ground. The rain was still falling heavily and the first thing Colin did was to hold his umbrella over the unfortunate academic. The man was mumbling something, over and over again, in Russian. Russian was not one of Colin’s well-aquainted languages but he felt certain it was an invocation or prayer or somekind, although he recognised also the odd swear word.

“Are you alright? Do you need assistance? Have you phoned for help? Would you like me to?”

The man looked up blankly for a moment, but he obviously spoke English if he was a member of Oxford.

Colin fumbled for his phone. At well past eighty years of age he had struggled to master his mobile phone, but he had got there in the end he was proud to say.

The man looked a little more focused, gazing into Colin’s face. “If... if you might help me? I live around the corner, on Merton Street.”

“I’m really not sure about that old chap. You’ve taken quite a beating.”

The man’s face alone was a mess of bruises, although the marks on his knuckles showed he had given quite a show of defending himself. Colin was more worried about the increasing confusion in the man’s eyes and the way he held his right side, as if it pained him terribly.

The man struggled to stand with the aid of the wall and a bollard that closed half of Magpie Lane to traffic, but he cried out in agony and appeared to faint with the effort or the pain.

This decided it for Colin, he immediately dialled 999 and asked for an ambulance and police.

*

Lewis returned to the interview room a little over fifteen minutes after he’d sent Dumitre back after taking his formal statement. He came bearing fish and chips for everyone, except for little Crina, for whom he had bought fishcake and chips – Lyn had only eaten fishcakes and fish fingers up to the age of nine or ten, refusing to eat any fish that might have bones in them, and Crina struck him as a potentially equally picky little girl.

Dumitre looked up from his still twitching and drumming fingers. “Mick just texted to say he’s just come off the M4 and is on his way up to us on the A34. I know this is urgent but I asked him to go home first.”

“Why?”

“Crina has tablets she needs to take.”

“Ah. Right.” Of course she has, poor kid, Lewis thought. Remembering exactly what was wrong with the child. “Right,” he said again awkwardly, “We’re going to have to talk about how we proceed when he gets here. Our – um, specialist, was over in Reading but she’s gone home, finished for the day – although she is on 24 hour call, so she is on standby. But it might make sense if we do this tomorrow.”

“Can we go home now?” Crina demanded. She had finished a stack of her ‘cave art’ and had moved on to the colouring book Hathaway had bought for her at the John Radcliffe.

“Not yet Crina,” Hathaway answered gently. “Inspector Lewis has one or two more things he needs done.” 

“We have to wait for Uncle Mick,” Dumitre answered.

*

Si had spent the past few hours following his little encounter with Anton back on the road. After Oxford he had driven first to High Wycombe and then on to Slough and finally to Reading, back home via Didcot and Abingdon, visiting various ‘massage parlours’ and ‘escort agencies’, strip clubs and pole dancing venues as well as various other nefarious ‘clubs’. He had just reported to his bosses and was feeling very bleak about either doing the required ‘hit’ or finding a ‘professional’ to do the ‘hit’. For one, the target was not an easy one and one that carried immediate full weight response from the police, and the very nature of the hit would carry a big price for a hit man. Secondly, and more importantly, being honest with himself, although he didn’t object to a bit of ‘enforcing’, it was even his calling if you liked, he didn’t like intimidating girls and he didn’t kill people. He also, thirdly, thought all this collecting of money and the silencing of witnesses was a waste of time. The Roschenkovs were going down for a long, long time, however expensive the barrister. Yuri was a nutter and Sergei weird. Life had been so much easier before their Dad had got wasted in Moscow. He used to use Sergei as a translator too, but he had been so much more organised and Sergei always seemed happier, less weird, scared of his Dad in a respectful way, not this shit scared terror and obedience he had for his much older brother.

Si also hated accidents. He was always so careful!

*

Hooper was on his way to see Lewis with the information from the taxi driver and Waleria’s pompous neighbour and her housemates regarding Simon Cope when Innocent told him to get over to the Radcliffe. Young PC Dixon had attended a violent assault of a Russian sociology professor. The assumption had been he had been mugged but Dixon had requested CID as Dixon had realised it was not mugging at all, as the victim was still in possession of his wallet, phone and laptop. Dixon had suspected some kind of revenge attack or perhaps queer bashing as, to quote the young beat officer, ‘he seems a bit gay’. Worst of all, which had promoted the young constable to ask for CID was Professor Milyutin’s own behaviour, he was the most unhelpful victim Dixon had ever come across. 

As Hooper left Tracy Hicks was pinning up the photo fit of the man seen leaving Waleria’s hours before she had been killed. It was most certainly not Simon Cope. Uniform could show it around the street, tomorrow maybe, Hooper thought as he left the office, almost empty now, it being long gone six o’clock in the evening.

*

When Mick Brown arrived he wasn’t at all as Lewis had imagined, although what quite he had imagined, he didn’t know. After all, he knew he was a carpenter involved in renovating a medieval church and that he was a little older than Dumitre, but he also knew he was gay and acted in gay porn movies, and Lewis was surprised at himself for making assumptions. Mick might have once been rather muscular and fit, and no doubt he was still strong, but much of what was once toned muscle on shoulders and biceps and stomach had turned to flab and soft belly. He had short dark, almost black hair and dark brown eyes, as tall as his husband but broader and chunkier, but that wasn’t hard, as Dumitre managed to make Hathaway look a bit plump – probably his illness.

Mick was shown into the side room everyone sat in, waiting, having long finished their fish and chips. Time had ticked yet again into overtime, so at least Julie, a uniformed officer, was happy. Tracey had popped by with a DVD of her children’s and it was playing on Hathaway’s laptop – something about animals running a hospital and flirting with each other, if Lewis was following it right. He was also going through Hooper’s witness statements of the neighbours and housemates.

“Uncle Mick!” 

Mick swept his niece up into his arms, dropping his leather jacket and battered blue canvas bag he had been carrying. He wore a faded, old black Jesus and Mary Chain tee shirt, worn out jeans splattered with brick dust, plaster and white paint and steel capped work boots. His arms were covered in tattoos, Lewis counted at least five, including a Celtic cross on the inside of his lower right arm and Dimi in curled Gothic writing on the left, a Maori patterning on his upper left and a Celtic pattern encircling the right, and just in the crook of his elbow, above the Dimi, a curved little abstract bird made of the letters C, R, I, N and A.

“How are you my little chick, eh?” He had a vague Highland Scottish accent, so gentle it was almost not there.

“James’ boss thinks Uncle Dimi killed Auntie Walli but I know he didn’t. He didn’t! It was an accident!”

“What was an accident Crina?” Lewis demanded, immediately.

“Nothing. I mean...” Crina sounded panicked.

“Crina needs her meds, she is late,” Dimi said forcefully, standing.

“You can’t interview Crina, you need a specialist child psychologist, I’ve been checking,” Mick said, glaring angrily at Lewis.

“Inspector Lewis doesn’t think your Uncle did it, Crina, we just need to eliminate everyone from our inquiries. I sent other CID officers to get the fingerprints from your neighbours, and we have your Uncle’s, and now your other Uncle is here we need you to give us yours.”

“I don’t want to!” Crina yelled at James, safe in here uncle’s arms.

“Tablets first!” Dimi yelled, stumbling forward towards his husband’s bag and jacket. He nearly fell. Lewis caught him.

“Your Uncle is right, Crina,” he said, sighing.

“Yes, he is,” agreed Mick, sitting Crina back on her chair and grabbing his bag. He took out a bottle of strawberry milkshake, a plastic pill organizer and a packet of jelly tots. He popped open the pillboxes. In several compartments lay lots of pills of various sizes and colours. Then he opened the milkshake bottle and placed it in front of Crina.

Crina sighed and looked at the large selection of big, bright tablets. She looked up at Hathaway. “I have the thing that killed Mama. She didn’t mean to make me sick, I catched it from her getting born. This makes me not die like Mama.” And she began to systematically pick up and swallow the tablets, washed down by the milk. Some got stuck and she choked once, they were obviously hard for her. The she gulped down the rest of the milk and snatched up the sweets, tearing open the packet.

“I think you are very brave and clever,” Hathaway said, “I’m hopeless at swallowing tablets.”

“I have to do it lots,” Crina said indistinctly, mouthful of sticky fruit gums.

Hathaway picked up her pile of ‘cave art’. “May I have one of your pictures, Crina, and a handprint? My office wall is a bit dull.”

“Alright.”

“And in a minute you can make some handprints with real black ink.”

Crina’s eyes widened, and she looked nervously at her uncles.

“And then you can go home.”

Crina nodded nervously.

Hathaway looked at Lewis, who nodded. Hathaway stood, “This way Mr. Brown, Crina.”

Mick picked up his niece, still chomping on her chews, and carrying her, followed Hathaway.

In the end, Crina quite liked sticking her fingers in the ink, and it took several goes until they had perfect prints and not smeary too dark lumps. She then watched nervously as Hathaway had put on a pair of plastic gloves and produced what looked like a cotton bud her uncles used to clean her ears only much longer.

“What is that for?”

“It’s for your DNA hen, it’s lots of invisible strings that make us what we are. The police need a little bit to check, you see, that you didn’t do anything wrong. This won’t stay on file, will it? She’s under ten.”

“We just need to eliminate her...”

“What is this eliminate word? It sounds like exterminate like Daleks! I didn’t mean anything, I didn’t mean to...”

“Mean to what, Crina?” Hathaway asked, despite himself.

“Nothing! Go outside when Uncle Dimi was sleeping! I told her to go away, that’s all. To leave us alone, I didn’t want to live with her! She wasn’t dead then, I promise, she wasn’t dead, and Uncle Dimi was asleep so he couldn’t have killed her, could he?”

“Crina, s’sh little chickie, we’ll get this sorted tomorrow. You don’t need to say anything. But if you open your mouth for the sergeant, he can get the sample and we can go home, okay?”

“We ate your cake,” Crina said suddenly, remembering. “Auntie Walli made me scared and Uncle Dimi said we could have your cake.”

“We’ll get another, on the way home, okay.”

“Big Abingdon Tescos?”

“Yes, if you like.”

“Can I have a colouring book?”

“If you open your mouth wide like at the dentist for the sergeant.”

“And a toy?”

“We’ll see Crina, I’m not made of money, I just lost this job...”

“Promise?”

“A small one then. Now, so the sergeant can do his job, will you open your mouth and we can go home!”

“He’s James.”

“What?”

“His name is James.”

“Well, open your mouth for James and then we will go and buy cake, a colouring book and a small – very small – toy.”

Crina jumped off Mick’s lap and went and stood before Hathaway, opening her mouth wide. Hathaway took the DNA sample.

“Right. Unless she’s under arrest, you can sort out the questions with the specialist tomorrow, okay? With our solicitor present, not just me, alright?”

*

Lewis agreed to them leaving, after a phone call to the child witness expert, they made an appointment for nine thirty the following morning. Hathaway escorted them off the premises, as far as Mick’s dirty white van. While Dimi got Crina settled and strapped in on her child’s booster seat in the middle seat of the large van, Hathaway coughed, embarrassed, and shoved a ten pound note into Mick’s hand. 

“What’s this?” Mick looked horrified.

“The colouring book and toy, they’re on me. I know money’s tight, and you bribed her to make my job easier. Please, don’t be offended, she’s a lovely girl, she reminds me a bit of my God-daughters, and I don’t see them often enough. Please, it’s for Crina, not for charity...”

Mick, who had lost his contract, and such contracts went by reputation and recommendation, sighed, knowing that nearly half of the weeks groceries would have gone on cake, book and toy, accepted the tenner, hating himself while he did so. “Alright. Thanks.” He turned and then turned back,

“Do you think she did it?”

Hathaway looked back, anguished. Mick saw the doubt and uncertainly in the policeman’s eyes. “We have a child’s prints on a piece of flint with the victim’s blood on it.”

“But Crina is always banging bits of flint together, she tries to make arrow heads and knives and things like that. She plays at being a Stone Age kid.”

“But it’s evidence Mr Brown, it’s procedure. We have to follow up all lines of enquiries. How could she have felled a great bit woman, she’s tiny, small and weak for her age? No, I don’t think she did it. She’s hiding something, though.”

Mick sighed. “Dimi wouldn’t have done it either, I know him. Trust me.”

“She could be hiding anything. Your tenant, Mr. Cope. He has a record, did you know that?”

“No. Shit. I didn’t. What for?”

“GBH. ABH. Assault and battery.”

“Violence. Jesus. And Crina’s playing in the field near his van. Isn’t he...?”

“At the moment, my boss is focusing on this lead. It’s the prints, you see.”

“Your Inspector?”

“My Chief Super.”

“Ah. See you tomorrow Sergeant.”

*

“You’re not being very helpful Prof,” Hooper tried not to snap, but he was getting fed up. The boss had a diplomatic touch, but Lewis was right, he was an old plodder – give him evidence to sift through or door to door when it came to interviews and statements. Dixon had got nowhere, either, which was why he’d called CID. He was calling Anton Milyutin Professor and Prof by sheer dint he wasn’t very good at foreign names.

“I don’t remember, “ Milyutin replied again.

“It weren’t no mugging, PC Dixon told me that. He thinks it was a queer bashing – uh, homophobic assault.”

“What makes the young constable think I’m queer?”

“Don’t ’ave to be, just the bashers ’ave to think so.”

“As the PC did. Do you?”

“Can’t say. To tell the truth, my whole world view on who is queer and who isn’t has just taken a massive battering just recently,” Hooper blurted out honestly, thinking again of his boss.

“Oh, really?” Milyutin coughed, and sat up. “People are people, aren’t they? And nothing is so fixed and rigid as all that. My research centres around people trafficking into prostitution, in the main. Men are trafficked too, you know, straight men forced to be rent boys. And they are often controlled the same way as the girls, by straight men, who do rape them.”

“That’s sick!”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t, Constable.”

Now Milyutin was sitting up, looking straight at Hooper in the harsh hospital lighting, the niggling feeling of recognition coalesced in Hooper’s mind in a powerful recollection of the incident board in the office – the photo fit of the man who had come to Waleria’s digs after the man in the white van had left. He hoped Lewis had got his message about Simon Cope owning the van seen leaving Waleria’s house, and his long list of convictions he’d dug out – all for enforcement and assault, often connected to body guard stuff at massage parlours and strip clubs. It had to be a connection with the victim. And now this professor had research into trafficked girls like poor Waleria.

“Do you – um, like interview trafficked people? Prostitutes and the like?”

“I did, yes, for my first book, across three continents and countless countries. My new research focuses on survival and integration, once they have escaped the traffickers. How they get back home and if they are accepted, or if they stay on in the country they were trafficked to, and what they do – do any manage to reintegrate and have productive, useful lives. Most don’t, you know, and your lot don’t help – you raid brothels, arrest the girls and then hand them on to immigration who send them home, often to traditional societies, to whom these are fallen women, Jezabels, damaged goods...” Milyutin coughed again. “Forgive me, I am somewhat obsessed with my research, it got me this Fellowship here, and...”

“Sorry, Sir,” Hooper interrupted, “but I think you maybe able to help us in another inquiry.”

“Well, anything I can do to help.”

“You say that, but you won’t tell me or Dixon anything about who jumped you. Doc says another few hours and you could have died. Damaged your kidney. It’s only the painkillers that are stopping you screaming, I reckon.”

“Really, Constable, it’s not that bad. My kidney suffered bruising, there was no internal bleeding as such,” although Milyutin glanced down at the tube coming from his abdomen, draining away blood and fluid. He also has an IV giving him fluids and painkillers. On top of that were the broken collarbone and the three broken ribs. “Perhaps the painkillers are a blessing. I really don’t see what I can do to help you. He attacked me and left me. I don’t know why. He grabbed me from behind and rammed my face in the wall first, after which my recollection is very hazy. Plus, it was raining torrentially. You see.”

Hooper narrowed his eyes. He saw. He saw Milyutin knew his attacker and was terrified. “I see. Well, then, Professor. We have a girl found dead, out in the sticks, lives in Abingdon, but is working as a sex worker in a brother off the Cowley Road. With your research I was thinking my boss could come see you, maybe, with your expertise, we might find a motive, and suspect.” Other that a six year old kiddie, Hooper added mentally, and a motive other than her wanting that poor sick kid.

“I’d be happy to help. In anyway I can, contacts or language – so many of these girls are not English.”

“Are many Russian then?”

“Some. I speak Polish, Serbo-Croat, Romanian, Arabic, Mandarin with smatterings of Malay, Korean and Indonesian.”

“Wow! You could lecture in foreign languages, you don’t need to do sociology.”

“Ah, but I love my subject, detective, I really do. I do assist in the language schools in the summer months. What language did this girl speak?”

“Polish, I guess. She was a Pole. But she went to see this Romanian when she was killed. He’s innocent, but she was found dead near his mobile home. Miles from Abingdon or Oxford, miles from a bus route with no car.”

Milyutin had paled, if that was possible, he already being pale with his injuries. “What was her name? This Polish girl? Her name?”

Hooper consulted his notebook and read out painfully, “Waleria Nowicka.”  
Anton Milyutin paled further and clutched his heart, “Bozheh moj!”   
“Professor! Sir! Shall I call a nurse?”  
Milyutin muttered something and shook his head. However, a nurse had arrived anyway. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave now.” 

“I think he knows our murder victim. I’m going, but if he says anything about it, you must call. Please. Ask for DC Hooper. Or my boss, DI Lewis. Or his... bagman. DS Hathaway. Please.” Hooper gave a card to the nurse and placed another on the table beside Milyutin’s bed. The he left, thinking of all he had to tell his boss. Was it shock or fear at getting caught? The girl had meant more to him that just a girl he might have interviewed once or twice for his poncy Oxford sociology book, that was obvious even to a plodder like Hooper.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slight reference to James' being abused at Creavecoeur Hall in the form of a nightmare, plus references to his abduction, drugging and rape in my Cold Summer that starts this AU

Lewis sat at his desk, yawning. A fat folder sat on it, plus he had an e-mail and voicemail from Hooper. In the morning, he decided. James had already gone; he’d sent the lad home to get some sleep. They had already eaten, and he had a ‘hands off’ rule during a murder investigation. Besides, the boy was so twitchy and stressed about what had happened the previous night, the night the body had been discovered. It might have been nice, taking James home with him, sleeping again. Even if James didn’t have issues, he was so bloody knackered it would all he’d want anyway, even if he didn’t have the rule. The phone rang. Lewis swore. If it was bloody Hooper again, he’d swing for him in the morning. It was Hobson.

“Laura. What?”

“And hello to you too Robbie.”

“Sorry. Bad day.”

“Yes. And not only you. After you and James told me about the child’s prints on the possible murder weapon I went back and ran tests, complex bio-chemical tests, but in English, as you would demand, I really can’t determine actually at all, but it appears, possibly, that the girl suffered...”

“Laura. I’m tired and operating on a short fuse and you’re confusing things as much as our James.”

“Do we share ownership of James now, or is this northern thing? If it is Robbie, watch who you refer to him as ‘our James’ to, will you.”

Lewis sighed. “Noted. Now, briefly, you ran tests on the body and...?”

“I’m not sure I can swear to this in court yet, I’ll need further tests and to wait for more results, and then it’s still guess work but...”

“Laura man!”

“I think our victim was roughed up and then the maybe attempt to be strangled happened some hours before death and maybe, and this I’m not so certain about, the small cut on the back of the head, which may, or may not be, made by the large piece of flint that has the child’s prints, probably occurred maybe up to an hour, possibly slightly longer before, her death.”

“So a person, or persons unknown, pushed her about and bruised her and then tried to strangle her, then bunged a rock at her, then snapped her neck and smashed her forehead on the ground?”

“Or vice a versa. I’ve withdrawn my ruling until I’ve more evidence. I’m flipping between accidental death and murder/manslaughter.”

“What?”

“You’re probably still looking for someone Robbie, but someone who caused an accident and failed to report it. Or she actually just fell, wet ground, high heels, out of her tree on vodka and dope. Or the neck was snapped and she cut her head open as she fell, already dying. I really can’t tell at this time. But even if the child is responsible...”

“Yeah. It bothers me Laura. She’s definitely hiding something from us and her uncles.”

“Oh Robbie...”

“Fancy a drink Laura. I’ve sent James home.”

“But will he like it?”

“Screw him. What the eye doesn’t see... Anyway, you’re my friend. He knows that.”

“I hope so. The White Horse? Half an hour?”

“I’ll be there.”

*

Back at the caravan, Mick carried the sleeping Crina straight to bed, pulling off her shoes and tucking her under her quilt, gently pushing a toothbrush in her mouth as, three-quarters asleep, she let her uncle brush her teeth. He tucked up the rag doll and the floppy rabbit next to her and switched of the light. In the main room Dumitre had got as far as putting on the kettle but now he sat, in the dark, on the sofa, staring at nothing.

“Okay Dimi?” Mick switched on the light and poured the hot water into the coffee pot.

“Don’t know. Thanks for coming back.”

“What else could I do?”

“Sorry you lost the job.”

“I’ll find others.” Mick shrugged. “There’s always regular stuff.”

“You’re a craftsman.”

“Got you and Crina to think of. I’ll even assemble flat pack for a price if I have to. Lost my pride years before you, you know that.”

“I thought you got it back.”

“Come shower with me Dimi.” 

“I’m not in the mood.”

Mick laughed. “Nothing so kinky, smelly. I’ll wash and de-tangle your hair. Give you a shave. Bad week with the pain and tiredness, huh?”

“Shit week all round. Crina’s been excluded. Again.”

“Yeah. You said. In a text. Yesterday morning.”

“Was it only yesterday? Feels like months have happened since I had to fetch her from school. Do you think she did it?”

“Come and have a shower, eh? We’ll talk there.”

*

Sarah had thought her fiancé had gone to sleep. When she had got home from school she was shocked to find him in such a state she had rung their GP surgery and insisted he’d been seen. He was given sleeping pills and antidepressants and a referral to the practice counsellor for post-traumatic stress disorder. It had been a shock, finding the body, and some people coped better than others. Tim’s own father had died in an accident on the family farm when he was small, and he had always been convinced his playing out in the barns had caused it. This was apparently some kind of ‘resurrection of memory’ the young doctor had suggested.

Suddenly Sarah heard a bump.

“Tim? Tim, are you okay?” She got up and headed towards the bedroom. He stood in the corridor; eyes wide open but not seeing.

“Valerie. Blood. No. Not me. Can’t be. Valerie. Poor Valerie.”

“Come on Tim,” and very gently Sarah guided her fiancé back to bed.

*

Anton sat up staring out of the window at the many lights of the hospital buildings he could see and across towards Northway and the lights of all the houses and the tower blocks, the tallest in Oxford. Shame he wasn’t the other side, with a view of the countryside or maybe even down into the city centre and the medieval buildings. But the twinkling lights of homes and streetlights and cars were soothing, like an aid to meditation. What was he to do? What could he tell the police? He was sure this Hooper’s boss, his Detective Inspector, would be back in the morning. Did the cop mean a caravan park or just a few mobile homes in the countryside between Abingdon and Oxford? Is that what Hooper had said? He knew whom she was visiting then. He tried so hard to pretend that whole part of his life hadn’t happened, that the boy didn’t exist. His research, his atonement, his giving those girls (and the boy) their dignity back. He, himself, had come so close to killing Waleria, had seriously considered it, and now she was dead. That SiCo bastard? The boy? The boy’s man? Someone else? Once the police knew his connections, knew he’d been to visit, they were going to come after him anyway. He would be a suspect. Hopefully she was killed while he had been giving his public lecture, over a hundred witnesses to alibi him there. And if not? What then? He lived alone, had gone straight home with a takeaway, no-one he knew had seen him until his lecture at nine this morning.

*

James was disturbed. Even more so that he had been by Zelinksy. That poor girl, her damaged body, sodden and dismembered in the cistern; that sick, twisted bastard torturing them in his interviews over four days... More so than going back to Crevecoeur Hall, more so that thinking he was attending a routine suicide – always upsetting enough - and seeing Will, his brains blown out across the floor in front of the alter, the statue of Our Lord smashed by Will’s hammer...

He liked Crina. She was bright, different, had suffered so much but was so cheeky and optimistic in a quiet, hardly noticeable way. And she was so ill, that alone was disturbing enough. It was something one read about, something one gave money to charity for, it was something far off and a long, long way away in Africa, places like that. Once didn’t expect to meet a HIV positive child here, in Oxford, it was unthinkable.

He’d opened a bottle of wine, but wasn’t really drinking. The TV was on, but he wasn’t really watching. He could see the endless little scribbles of stick animals in red felt tip, Crina’s little hands on bits of flint, trying to imitate the people from her favourite period in history, little Crina throwing a rock, banging it down on a head, full of anger and fear, not wanting to leave her uncles...

How could she bang it down on an adult's head? Even on the steps up to the mobile home front door he doubted she’s be tall enough, and then she’d have to follow Waleria over 50 metres to then push her over with such force she snapped her neck and cut open her forehead as she fell. Could a six year old do that? And keep quiet about it.

Think about it maybe?

Want to do it?

Children have no power; they are entirely dependant on the adults around them. They can’t choose, they can’t demand, they get what they are given. And after living in squats and brothels and bedsits watching men screw her Mum and her ‘Auntie’ Walli Crina had a home, even if it was just a big caravan in a field, she had regular food, a TV, toys and books and two adults that doted on her. Why wouldn’t she kill to keep that, if she could?

Or cover up someone who did kill?

Maybe?

Lewis was convinced Dumitre Kobori Brown was entirely innocent. But then he was also opening doors for him, fetching him tea, giving him little reassuring touches on the shoulder and arm and hand, looking at him like...

Shame that Mick Brown didn’t see it. He’d have something to say. All that flirting stopped when he arrived.

James was tired; he was letting his imagination run away with himself. Why would Lewis...?

Because you’re frigid and fucked up! James answered himself, switching off the TV and lying down flat on his sofa, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t want me tonight, he went on, tormenting himself.

Yeah, that would be because I punched him!

Should have punched Augustus!

And what good would that have done me then? As small a Crina when he started it all...

*

Tim sat in bed shaking, Sarah’s arm around, helping him drink a cup of warm sweet tea.

“You can’t have done it, silly. You don’t even have a motive. Remember what the doctor said about your feelings from when you were a boy?”

“I do. Sort of. That is, I knew her. Oh Sarah! You are so going to hate me when I tell you.”

“Tell me what Tim? How did you know her?”

“When I was a student, years ago, well... You know Colin; I took applied Maths with him. Well, he used to go to these places and he persuaded me and David to go with him – it was just the three times, and I only went with one of the girls once, but I’m so ashamed, you’ll hate me, I never wanted you to know.”

“You went to a brothel as a student?”

“Yeah.”

“And this woman, the dead one, she was the tart you shagged?”

“Well, yeah. I’m so sorry, I never wanted you to know...”

“And you think now you were so panicked about me finding out you killed her and then forgot about it?”

“I know it sounds crazy Sarah, I know I sound crazy...”

“No. It didn’t happen. I would have known. Noticed. And you would have had to go out before and would have been gone ages, but you weren’t even gone five minutes before you shouted and then Dimi was screaming in Romanian and I called the cops. And that pathologist, she said she’d been dead for well over an hour. You didn’t do it, Tim.” Sarah put down the mug and took Tim’s face in her hands. “Look at me. You didn’t do it. It’s as the doctor said – you have flashbacks to the guilt you had as a kid – and you didn’t kill your Dad either, darling, you didn’t. That was an accident, this was some bastard killing her for God knows what. Maybe even Dimi.”

“Dimi wouldn’t.”

“She was shouting about how she wanted Crina and how she had told someone something about him. I’ve got lots of East European kids in my class, I pick up words from various languages,” she said as Tim stared, glazed-eyed, at her.

“Dimi wouldn’t. You saw him.”

“And you. I saw you. And I know you better. You didn’t kill her. Dimi probably didn’t either. God knows how uneven that ground is with the subsidence and the molehills and the long grass and weeds, thistles; huge mutant thistles grow there. She might have just fallen and broke her neck, mighten she? Maybe? Or Si? He’s a scary bastard. But not you darling, not you.” She kissed him gently on the forehead and lay them down, he snuggling into her. She stoked her fiancé’s head. “And I forgive you. We all do stupid things we feel uncomfortable with when we’re students. Remind me one day to tell you about the lap dancing me and my classmates did in the Student Union one Rag Week!”

*

Dimi sat on the floor of the shower room; Mick knelt behind him, raking a comb with difficulty through Dimi’s dyed black hair, covered with the thick white foam of conditioner. The water was switched off.

“Do you think she did it?” Dimi asked again.

Mick thought before answering. “I asked the sergeant that. He thinks it unlikely, and I seriously doubt it. But I think she knows something and that scares me. She mentioned an accident while the sergeant was getting her prints, then clammed up again.”

“I’m scared Mick.”

Mick sat down and wrapped his arms around his husband. “It’ll be fine. She’ll be fine. She could even just be scared of us telling her off for playing with big rocks or sneaking out when you’re asleep. You know how kids are. Or maybe she wished Waleria would leave us alone and now she’s dead she thinks her wishing did it. Come on Dimi love, she’s six, she’s tiny and weak for her age at that, what could she do?”

“I don’t know Mick, I don’t know. I just feel I can’t take anymore. I feel as frightened as I did when they found me in that warehouse in Bucharest and realised what they had planned for me, or on the truck, or arriving in England, or when you left the studio and he left office and they were planning to kill me...” Dimi was crying now. He hardly ever thought of his past, he and Mick never talked about it, it was a rule. Mick tightened his hold on his husband and buried his face in his foamy hair. The conditioner stung his eyes but it wasn’t that that made them water.

“I love you. Anthony is coming with us tomorrow. He stopped your deportation and arranged the adoption, didn’t he? He’s good. He won’t let anything bad happen to Crina.”

“I’m more afraid. It’s not for me. I didn’t think anything or anyone could take over your heart and mind so much, but Crina has.”

“I know. I thought when I fell in love with you it was the scariest thing I could feel, but with Crina...”

“How could she kill Walli? She’s so tiny.”

“That’s what I said. It’s what the sergeant thinks, too. Crina trusts him, and she doesn’t feel safe around many men, thanks to your sister and Walli’s lifestyle.”

“Yeah. But he’s gay.”

Mick laughed. “Takes one to know one, yeah?”

“Walking stereotype, did you not notice the foundation and mascara?”

“A straight meterosexual. London’s full of ’em.”

“In the police?” Dimi scoffed.

“Let’s rinse your hair.” Mick switched the shower back on. “It’s going to be fine.”

*

James woke up in a panic. It was dark, the TV off and the candle he had lit gutted. Only the cars passing and the street light lit the room. Heart in his mouth, shaking and sweating, feeling cold all over and the palpitations so strong he felt like he might have a heart attack, he stumbled off the sofa and snapped on the main light. His legs shaking he sank to the chair, putting his hands in his head.

It had been so vivid. He’d been six. Small, all white blond curls and excitement about music, about learning to play the piano, about being one of his lordship special ones. Then he had been sitting on the piano stool, Mortmaigne guiding his hands, moving his hands, touching him, guiding his hands to do something else and suddenly James was standing, as small as he had been then, everything so huge, Augustus towering, but now a large, irregular piece of flint was in his hand and he threw it and Augustus fell, face down, smashing his face and breaking his neck and lay there, bleeding his life out on the Summerhouse floor and the child James stood over him, panting with fear and something like satisfaction and...

James woke, shaking and afraid.

He began to weep.

*

Si pulled over and threw his hardly eaten double cheeseburger and fries away. He felt sick. He’d met with his boss’s lawyer and handed over the money, all save for the few thousand he had kept back for the meeting he’d just had an hour before buying his McDonald’s. He didn’t kill people, barring frightening accidents he wanted to forget, but he had just handed over the photo, the name, the address of the victim. He had just paid someone to kill another person, a cop!

He got out of the car and threw up. He couldn’t deal with this. He shouldn’t have done it. But if he didn’t, wouldn’t it have been him? The Roschenkovs had contacts everywhere, and if he was dismissed, he didn’t rate his chances. He wished to God he’d never started working for them and kept to being a bouncer with a bit of freelance enforcing.

*

Mick and Dumitre were snuggled up in each other’s arms when they heard Simon’s van pull up.

“Do you think he did it?” Mick whispered. “The sergeant told me he has a record an arm long, all for roughing people up.”

“Why? Did he know her?”

“Well, he’s a lonely straight bloke with no girlfriend, he could easily have seen her, you know?”

“S’pose. But why? Oh God Mick, I’d hardly got my head around losing her. She was a right pain in the arse, as you would say...”

“I frequently did.”

“But she was a constant in Crina’s life, and she loved my sister as if she were hers and I can’t fault her for that. I didn’t want her dead. Sober. Straight. Off the streets. Yes. But dead? I had to identify her. They’d cleaned her up, she looked... peaceful?”

Mick tightened his hold again. “Awful for you, though. I had to identify both my grandmothers, as you know.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Hang on in there. Be strong for Crina. This play therapist, she’ll get Crina to open up. It’s her job. But listen love; Crina did not kill anyone, okay? Just hang on to that. Come on, we have got to get some sleep or we’ll be no good for her in the morning.”

*

Lewis was sound asleep when he was awoken by his doorbell. “Ah hell!” As he stumbled out of bed his mobile began to ring and vibrate: James. Torn, he pulled on his bathrobe and went to the door. James stood there, wet and shivering, despite the mild summer night. He was still in his work suit, sopping wet, his hair flat again his head. He was hugging himself tightly, his phone in his hand. 

“Did you just call?”

“You didn’t open the door.”

“I was asleep. It’s what people do at – dear God! Three in the morning.”

“Not quite.”

“Near enough. Developments in the case? Couldn’t you call?”

“I... I... No, I...”

“Come in and get yourself dry. Raining is it?”

“No.”

“James, you’re soaking man!”

James followed Lewis to the bathroom where Lewis switched on the shower and started to strip James, who pulled away in a panic.

“Okay love. Alright. I’ll leave you to sort yourself out. I’ll find you something to wear and make you a cup of tea.”

“C...can’t shower. F...forensics.”

“What?” Lewis then noticed the scrape on James’ chin, the bruised knuckles – no, that was from the other night wasn’t it? “What has happened? James? Let’s get you out of the wet things anyway. Do I need to stick them in an evidence bag? Have you been... you know, again?”

“Assault. I think. He had a gun. I got away, I ran and I...”

“What?”

“He fired. I jumped in the Cherwell. He didn’t come after me. I think... I don’t know...”

“Where the hell was this? What were you doing near the Cherwell at silly o’clock in the morning any how?”

“C... coming to you. I had a bad dream. I was scared. Then I thought someone was in the flat and I panicked and...”

“I’ll call uniform, get them out to – where is it?”

“Christchurch Meadow. I was cutting across from Rose Lane to get to St. Aldates.”

“Why the hell didn’t you drive?”

“Over... over the limit.” James teeth were really chattering now.

“Just grabbed you, you say? Bugger forensics pet, you get into that shower and warm yourself up, alright?”

It was over twenty minutes before James came into the sitting room dressed in an old pair of Lewis’ pyjamas and an equally old sweater, socks on his feet. He sat next to Lewis who instantly pulled a blanket around James and handed him some tea.

“Uniform found nothing in the meadow but at yours the front door and flat door have been tampered with. Professional. We’ll get forensics around and you can give your statement in the morning. Fuck knows how you’ll explain walking to me in the middle of the night coz you had a nightmare.”

“Because of what happened? In May. You’re my friend as well as my boss and you’re helping. Innocent might advise counselling again but she can’t make me, can she? Sir.”

“It’s Robbie James.”

“Robbie then.”

“What?”

“I’m scared. What were they doing in my flat? And why did they try to shoot me?”

“Coincidence, James, people don’t shoot cops here. This is Oxford, for Godsake! You probably scared a burglar when you woke and decided to come to me, and as for the guy in the park – well, hell, a nutter with a gun. That is a worry. But it’s not about you personally, is it. Come on, calm down love.” Robbie put his arms around James and pulled him down. James curled up with his head on Robbie’s lap.

“I dreamt I killed Augustus. When I was six. It was so real. I terrified myself.”

“It was only a dream love.” Robbie began to stroke James’ hair. “Only a dream. And only a random nutter in the meadow. Don’t worry, uniform will catch him.”

James drifted into a doze with his hair stroked. Lewis made him feel safe. Lewis fell asleep too, only to be woken a few hours later, his back killing him, by a call from Innocent. He lifted the sleeping head of James from his lap and stood, settling James back onto the sofa cushions.

“Ma’am?”

“A gunman? In Christchurch Meadow?”

“What?”

“Forensic Ballistics have dug out a bullet from a Willow tree on the path beside the Cherwell about a hundred yards from the footbridge to the boathouses.”

“What?”

“Yes, Lewis, what the hell is going on? Was it personal? Does it relate to your case? Or the Roschenkov one?”

“Or a coincidence.”

“People don’t have easy access to guns, Lewis, you know that. Seriously, how likely is it that some mentally ill person would have access to a gun, let alone be wandering around meadows in the early hours with it taking pot shots at strangers who happen to be CID officers. I’ve tasked Peterson with this, see that James cooperates. Is he okay? What the hell was he doing anyway?”

“On his way to me. He has nightmares, Ma’am, about his abduction, I said if he needs to talk, anytime...”

“Very commendable, I’m sure. But listen to this, Peterson has been in since five this morning and he has dug up all sorts of reports from Aylesbury Remand – the Roschenkovs have been having regular phone calls with a Simon Cope, known felon, an enforcer, body guard and former pimp and living in one of those damn caravans where your body was found! Apparently Hooper had found eyewitnesses to Cope’s van being in the victim’s street and even him, possibly, in her house. Why hasn’t he been questioned?”

“On my to do list Ma’am. You said yourself that the priority was the child – her prints, she had motive. Eliminate her from our inquiries or charge her as discreetly as possible keeping press out. Your priority order. Ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Hooper, who I Christened Alec Hooper after PC Alec Hooper moved to CID in the course of a Midsomer Murders episode. Gerard Horan has also played a DS in a Marple episode and of course is the awesomely scary Father of Mine in Doctor Who. But I think I love him best for one of his first movie roles in one of my all time favourite films - man on telephone In 'My Beautiful Laundrette'.
> 
> Please comment - they make my day. And I apologise for the probably large number of typos in the last two chapters.


	8. Chapter 8

Lewis knew sleep was impossible now, besides it was already gone six. He washed, dressed and shaved and then fetched the fat folder Hooper had left him and fired up his old dinosaur of a desktop to access the e-mail Hooper had sent late last evening. He printed the e-mail and sat at the breakfast bar with a strong cup of instant coffee and a pile of toast, and with his notebook and pen started making notes, flow charts and spider diagrams and mind maps, one for Crina, one for Cope, one for this Professor Milyutin, one for the Roschekovs and one for Dumitre Brown. He made Venn diagrams and lists. Crina still came on top, with motive, opportunity and fingerprints. But she was a wee girl and he knew little of the others. Both Cope and Milyutin had visited Waleria, either could have roughed her and her bedsit up. 

But why would Milyutin want to harm her? Was she more than part of the Fellow’s research? A relationship he wanted kept quiet? Could she have been blackmailing him? Had he followed her out to the hamlet of Aston Bassett and beyond to the back of a farm lane and the few houses of what wasn’t even a hamlet where the Browns’ fallen down cottage and land lay with the three mobile homes? How? Hooper said he had no car. Could he have borrowed one? Hired one?

As for Cope? He threatened and beat people up for a living and the Met. had connected him to the Roschenkovs, according to Peterson. But what could one Polish prostitute be to them? How could she threaten them? Yes, they had been people trafficking and yes, they were remanded under counts of that along with drug and alcohol smuggling as well as multiple abductions, druggings and sexual assaults. Yuri didn’t do girls and Sergei did what Yuri told him. Except according to the psyche reports Yuri was basically heterosexual but damaged by rape and torture by Chechen rebels whilst in the Russian Army. Maybe he had had a relationship with Waleria and she knew too much about the business? No, that wouldn’t work. She wouldn’t have been living in a small bedsit working at a massage parlour cum brothel selling herself if she had been – to coin a phrase from the films of his misspent youth, a ‘gangster’s moll’?

Dumitre had motive and opportunity if Crina was covering for him. But Lewis trusted his instincts and that boy had been in deep shock, and there was no way he would let this go on with Crina as a suspect if he were guilty. Of that, Lewis was certain.

He stared at James on the sofa. He was curled up on his side, feet sticking over the edge all the same. Perhaps he ought to get a longer sofa? Anyways, he needed to wake James. He made fresh coffee, this time properly and not instant, else he’d put James in a bad mood, and shook him awake.

“Sir?”

“It’s nearly seven James. Wakey-wakey. Feeling more like yourself?”

“Um?” James sat up and let out an almighty sneeze. He looked startled. “I feel awful,” he rubbed his forehead, speaking with a croaky voice.

“That’s what you get when you jump in the Cherwell. Just be thankful the crocodile didn’t get you!”

James pulled a face.

“I’ll get you some painkillers. I need you to go and interview a possible suspect – he’s in hospital. Can’t have you coughing and sneezing there. But I meant – soft lad! – how are you feeling after last night?”

Lewis watched as a faint flush of embarrassment spread across the lad’s cheeks. He had really let his guard down again last night, nothing had been hidden or repressed or denied, even acknowledging his fear. Lewis was sure that some head shrink would say that was good, but he doubted it. James was James and had his own ways of coping. But, he’d had guns pointed at him too, and nearly been shot himself. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Morse... No, he wasn’t going to think of that poor lass...

“Right, we have Dr. Louise Jasper coming in at nine to go through our evidence before the Browns bring Crina in at nine thirty. Before that you need to get home – don’t worry, forensics have finished and the flat’s secure – and changed before you get on to the station, give Peterson your statement and then up to the JR and onto this Professor Milyutin person.”

“Right Sir. Milyutin?”

“Tell you over breakfast. You want breakfast, right? Cereal or toast or what?”

“Um. Both?” James asked hopefully. “And those painkillers.” He sneezed again.

*

Mick was stirring porridge while Dimi got Crina dressed and supervised her first round of drugs for the day. She sat at the dining table, swinging her legs, her rabbit and doll sat in a wooden toy high chair beside her, scowling. On the TV Milkshake was showing an old version of Noddy.

“I hate this,” Mick murmured.

Dumitre said nothing; he was trying to get Crina to stay still to brush her hair.

Just then there was a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” Crina skipped to the door.

“Oh. Anthony?” Crina was puzzled. She turned around. “Uncle Dimi! Uncle Mick! It’s Anthony. What is he doing here? Why? I can stay with you now? Auntie Walli is dead and no one else wants me do they?” She stamped her foot but her face was screwed up as if she were about to cry.

Dimi hurriedly scooped up his niece and hugged her. “No sufletel, he is here to drive us into Oxford. Inspector Lewis needs to see us again, to ask some more questions to help find who killed Walli, okay?”

“Why won’t they just leave us alone!” Crina stormed out to her tiny room, banging the door, making the van shake. 

 

*

 

Lewis pulled up just up the road from James’ flat, parking in Stanley Road opposite the small mosque there.

“Alright? Or shall I walk you to the door. Innocent tells me Peterson has someone watching your building, okay. Okay?”

Lewis was used to James and the way he hid everything and tried to shut off from his feelings so to him the slight tick in one eye and the little swallow told him James was not okay at all, but he pretended to believe James’ answer,

“Yup.”

 

*

 

Milyutin looked again out of the window, staring across the car parks and service roads to beyond, to all the very English neat red brick nineteen fifties and sixties housing, all in little pairs, all so close to each to each and yet with their little patchwork gardens. The English so loved their ‘little pieces of earth’. And then up to the ugly grey concrete block of flats. He knew behind that there were allotments, so many allotments in Oxford. But he had been to those with a colleague, a Philosophy Professor and aspiring Chair of the PPE interview assessments. To Anton the obsession with growing one’s own vegetables when one had a very good salary to pay for all kinds of more palatable foods from hotter climes was a complete mystery, but it had been a pleasant day, sitting smoking while Adrian had weeded his carrots and harvested peas and broad beans and raspberries. They’d gone back to his rooms and Adrian had produced a delectable feast of risotto with the vegetables and a ‘summer pudding’, an English concoction he could happily have eaten again. They’d sat on the sofa afterwards but nothing happened. Anton was always afraid to make the first move, and as for Adrian, he was never sure what he wanted or felt. 

He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.

“You don’t want your breakfast then?” asked the horrendously cheerful West Indian lady who had brought round the breakfasts earlier. It had been ordered by the previous occupant of the bed and was a bacon roll.

“Sorry. I don’t seem to be hungry.”

“I shall have to tell the nurses love, okay? Drink your tea.”

Milky and English, he’d not been awake enough to ask it for it black and sweet.

“You in pain love? Want a hot cup?”

“Yes, I am, and no tea, thank you.”

“Get better soon love.” 

How could she be so cheerful so early on in the morning? And why did they serve breakfast so early? Surely the best healer was sleep? And yes, he was in pain, all where that bastard the Roschenkovs had sent had punched and kicked him, but that wasn’t what made him feel so sick. A senior officer in the investigation of Waleria’s death would be here soon and he was going to have to tell the truth.

And the truth would make him a suspect.

Anton went back to window gazing as a distraction.

 

*

Crina wore her favourite pink dress with her best red sandals and cardigan. Bunny came too. She sat in the back of Anthony’s car with Uncle Dumitre feeling scared. A lady was going to ask her questions and she was to tell the truth. Her uncles would find out how wicked and evil she could be.

But it was an accident! They must see it was an accident!

 

*

Lewis pulled out into Iffley Road as James was half way down to his flat when something caught his eye, a flash, a reflection, something. He never knew what. His niece Willow would call it telepathy or something, he later thought. All he knew was he had just stopped the car and jumped out, pushing James to the ground as a bullet whistled past their heads. He carried on pressing James into the pavement and shielding his body as Peterson’s ninjas reacted with speed and efficiency. Peterson had stationed more than one armed officer as well as other CID officers in the street. 

Peterson had known it was overkill and it had taken him some persuasion with Innocent, but having seen the reports from Aylesbury Remand he was following his gut, and his gut told him that the Roschenkovs were getting rid of as many witnesses as possible who could testify against them.

Lewis sat up as a man was led out of the homeless hostel opposite James’ flat. The man was struggling and shouting aggressively as two burly officers held him, restraining him with handcuffs behind his back, not usual Oxfordshire procedure. The men looked like they wanted to punch him one. Well, hell, so did he, but well, what good would that do? Justice was for the courts; their job was to just nick them. Another officer, plain clothes, followed, carried a high-powered rifle and sights in a large evidence bag. Lewis climbed off James, who was as white as a sheet, and sat beside him on the pavement, putting a hand to his shoulder. He was about to ask James if he were okay when,

“Why don’t you two get a room man,” Peterson teased as he approached them.

“What?” Lewis snapped back, guilty, taking a few seconds to recognise it as harmless banter and not a real accusation.

The sniper, safely in handcuffs and now subdued, head hung in defeat, was now being pushed into a panda car by a uniformed officer. The shooter was balding, with a tattoo, wearing grey tracksuit bottoms and a blue tee shirt. He looked so ordinary.

“Hathaway?” Peterson asked, concerned, looking down at James, still as white as a sheet. “Alright now? We’ve got the bastard and we’ll get to the bottom of this, don’t you worry.”

James nodded.

“I’ll need your statement, but later. I’m sure your inspector has work for you with this murdered woman.”

Mute, James nodded awkwardly again.

“Do you have any idea why this bloody thing happened Peterson?” Lewis asked, confused by this cock-sure attitude, as if he had known there would be another attempt at shooting James.

“Hired by the Roschenkovs, at least I suspect so. Have him in custody now. I’ll get him to talk. Hey!” Peterson suddenly interrupted himself, squatting down next to Lewis and James.

Lewis turned and quickly pushed James head down between his legs. Peterson pulled out a bottle of mineral water from his pocket.

“Careful there Hathaway,” he said. And then to Lewis, “Stupid, the forensics and Hathaway’s statement are enough, besides which the younger one testified against his brother, right?”

“I thought Yuri was going into a secure mental health facility?”

“Apparently the shrink didn’t see any reason for it. Why they’re in Aylesbury Remand – got the prison’s expertise on hand. Should have separated them though.”

“Bloody well should have done.”

“Shame they didn’t ‘hang themselves’ while in our custody. If I’d been here back then...”

Lewis had stood up and stared at Peterson. “No one likes what happened at our station Peterson, but we do things by the book, alright?”

Peterson looked aghast. “It was a joke,” he said lamely.

“Alright. Fine. Maybe I’m a bit touchy when it comes to my sergeant right now. Now, help me get James to his feet and to his flat and then bugger off and process the bastard.”

“Is he alright?”

“Do you think he’s alright? After you so casually...”

“What? Oh, the Roschenkovs...”

“Shut up.” James said quietly. They both turned and looked down on him. “Sirs,” he amended.

“Sorry James,” Lewis said, and took an arm. Peterson took the other and they hauled him to his feet. Peterson was surprised to feel how James was shaking. Lewis looked at him as if to say ‘I told you so.’

“Sorry sergeant,” he said. “Okay now? Make him a cup of tea Lewis.”

“I intend to,” Lewis snapped a lot harsher than he intended. Something about Peterson always put his hackles up. Only Laura’s dry humour and mick takes of ‘action man’ could lower them again. But Laura wasn’t here. Thank goodness she wasn’t here! Lewis thought, realising suddenly what so nearly could have happened and that Peterson, he assumed angrily, had been planning to get his man for murder or attempted murder and it had mattered little personally to him which it had been. He was also annoyed at Peterson’s audacity to dare to be angry about what James had been through in such a casual way, not caring for what James had suffered and what he felt but only that the bastards had got an officer. He had no right! The crime, after all, had inadvertently outed James to the entire station and, Lewis was sure, officers like Peterson were always one veiled comment away from homophobia. It was why he was so desperate to keep his possible relationship, all his feelings, to himself.

 

*

 

Robbie Lewis had never been so glad as to get back to James flat. They both sank down to the sofa, as Robbie’s legs too were now shaking as badly, as with no Peterson to get angry with, he could dwell on how close James came to being shot.

“Sir. Your keys.”

It was Julie; she’d parked his car. She took one look at inspector and sergeant and said, “I’ll put the kettle on.”

 

*

Si Cope sat in his caravan, staring at his mobile. He had just spoken to Sergei – or rather Yuri, with Sergei translating, and he wasn’t happy. He had done all they asked but it wasn’t good enough, apparently. They had wanted a professional, not a mate. But Si wasn’t into that side of things, how the hell was he supposed to find someone who did... that for a living at such short notice? His cousin hadn’t found work since he’d been discharged from the army, and with a kiddie on the way had needed the money. Still, as far as he knew, it was still all sorted. As long as they got what they wanted and it didn’t come back to him, what was their problem?

But now they wanted someone else silenced, roughed up like the others. But they were doubtful if it would work, and if it didn’t, if this man refused to cooperate after ‘persuasion’, he was supposed to again engage a certain professional to do what he wouldn’t.

And Si couldn’t. Not to this person. Not even hit him. He knew him too bloody well.

But one didn’t cross the Roschenkovs.

 

*

 

An hour after the incident James was making his way to the bay the helpful nurse indicated to being where Professor Anton Milyutin was. Afterwards, in his flat, Julie had made them both sweet tea, and obviously Robbie had told her something and trusted her implicitly, as he had not seemed bothered or embarrassed by either hugging his sergeant or calling him ‘James love’ and ‘pet’ in front of her. It was confusing as together out of work Robbie would get cross if he called him ‘Sir’ protesting time and time again that ‘he wasn’t like that’ but then he would come down on him like a ton of bricks if he accidentally called him Robbie at work. He had spelled out a strict ‘no dates, no snog, no nothing’ on live murder cases and yet would still do something like that, or something like squeeze his thigh in the car if he were driving. To James it was becoming a minefield. He couldn’t quite believe he had the right to be called a boyfriend or call their time together dates since he wasn’t willing, or rather, couldn’t give more than he could. And every time they tried anything physical...

No. He wasn’t going to think of that. It was just this case. People trafficked, forced and coerced into prostitution and porn movies against their will. No one had trafficked him, but he had certainly been coerced and forced...

But he wasn’t going to think of that. He was never going to think of that. Once it stopped he had told himself to pretend it never happened, just as he had at twelve at Crevecoeur. Unfortunately the Black case had put paid to that. But this case was not going to bring anymore bogeymen from out of his head, anymore than the Zelinksy case had.

 

*

 

Anton was feeling a little calmer. He had managed to call Adrian and explained all that was happening. He was so glad he had, as Adrian had heard he was in hospital and had been worried sick. He had even phoned but had not been allowed any information. He was coming by later with some clean clothes, some books and his wash bag and razor. He had even told Adrian that there was something personal, something from his teens and twenties that gave him this interest and passion for his area of research and campaigning for greater public awareness and government action.

“Professor Milyutin?”

Anton looked up and saw a tall, thin young man in an expensive dark suit and lilac shirt and tie. His hair was styled neatly up in a quiff and he, if Anton was any judge, wore foundation, powder, brown mascara and a dark pink lip-gloss. It was subtly done and enhanced his 1950s film star good looks without being obvious he was wearing anything at all.

“Yes?”

“Sergeant Hathaway, Oxfordshire Police. DC Hooper tells me you knew Waleria Nowicka?”

“As a woman I interviewed a few times in connection to my research, yes.”

The sergeant pulled up a chair and sat down with a sigh, folding himself up awkwardly. His impressive height was entirely down to those incredibly long legs, Anton decided. However, however pretty, this was a policeman looking for a suspect in poor little Walli’s death and unless he was very careful he could reveal he had what could be interpreted as possible motive. And he had wanted her to stop demanding money with menaces that was true. He’d even been tempted in a flash of anger, God forgive him!

“How well do you know her? How often did you see her? When did you last see her?”

“I met with her on several occasions over the past two years. Her testimony was one of my appendices in my second edition of ‘The Lower Depths’ and her experience here in Oxford since she arrived, having escaped the control of the gang who trafficked and pimped her have been invaluable to my new work, ‘Swimming the Depths’. I would say we’ve had several indepth interviews over the past few months. She had also taken to calling me asking for money.”

“Do you pay your interviewees Professor?”

“Some I do, some I don’t. Certainly those still on the game I will.”

“Why?”

“A few pounds from me means one or two less tricks they have to turn. Surely you can understand that sergeant?”

“M’m,” Hathaway replied vaguely. “So she was coming back for more money? Is that why you went to visit her at her bedsit in Abingdon?”

“What?”

“The night she was murdered, we have witnesses who state you visited her at around half past five to six o’clock that evening. Raised voices were heard, and breaking furniture. Her bedsit looked as if it had been smashed to pieces.”

Anton sighed and considered lying. He looked down at his hands, one having a tube going into the back of it carrying meds and painkillers.

“That wasn’t me. Someone else had been there. She didn’t tell me who. She was scared and hysterical when I arrived.”

“Why did you go? Was it to pay her more money or to ask her to stop or some other reason? Was she more to you than a subject of your research? Were you and she having a relationship? Or perhaps you were paying her for sex?”

The disapproval and disgust dripped from the sergeant’s plummy mouth. “I was most certainly not! She is most certainly not my type at all! Yes, she did know something of my early... past. The things I did to fund my first degree and get out of Russia to study first in Paris and then here. We had someone in common I really did not want knowing I was near by. She threatened me sergeant, she threatened to expose things I’m ashamed of, but they were not against the law, and any involvement I unwittingly had in trafficking and enslavement horrifies me. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

“She was blackmailing you?”

Anton looked away, back out of the window. “I suppose one could refer to it as such, yes.”

“Were you involved in prostitution in any way? Working for the traffickers? The gangs? As a translator perhaps? Hooper tells me you speak many languages, languages of many of the countries girls are often trafficked from.”

Anton continued to gaze out of the window, his right fingers unconsciously fiddling with the tube going into his left hand.

“Stop that, you’ll pull it out.” Hathaway gently put his hand over Anton’s, guiding it away from the IV. Anton looked at him, seeing sympathy in his eyes. “Were you a prostitute Professor?”

Anton shook his head. “No. But I acted, if one can call it that, in porn movies made by a dodgy company called Moon Dog Blue Productions. It was a front for trafficking, drug smuggling and prostitution rings. Male prostitution included. I was in debt and I was tempted, but my... um, fall from grace was restricted to the celluloid.” Anton snorted. “How old fashioned that sounds, how poetical. No film was used, only digital camera, putting a lot straight onto the internet. I didn’t know about any of the illegal stuff until later.”

“How long did you work for them?”

“All my time through at the Sorbonne and the LSE. I had no family, no money, no government or UN funding or grants or bursaries. I wanted to success, I wanted to graduate so I could study, research. Do you understand?”

Sergeant Hathaway’s eyes were full of understanding and compassion. “Yes. Yes I can.” 

“I did a lot of, um, ‘acting’ with this Romanian, Dumetri. I didn’t know he was essentially a slave. I didn’t know he was not consenting to what we did, that he wasn’t paid, I...” Anton took a breath and calmed himself. “I understand he lives where Walli’s body was found. If I understood the other detective correctly?”

Hathaway nodded.

“I’ve not seen him in five years. I didn’t know. But I understand Walli knew his sister and wants custody of a child. It was why she was demanding money from me.”

“Did you hurt her Professor?”

Anton looked out of the window again.

“Did you?”

Anton looked back to the pretty policeman. “What does it matter? Yes, I lost control, I’m ashamed to say. I tried to strangle her. I didn’t mean it, it was only a momentary thing. I just wanted her to stop with the demands, the threats. She threw herself at me, was clinging to me, crying over me and threatening me all at the same time.”

“And did you hit her?”

“Hit her? No. She was already bruised, I should imagine, if that was what you have found. From the man who threatened her, who smashed up her room. I saw him drive away – at least I think it was he. The same man who attacked me. Oh! Damn it! You may as well know. Before I was offered a place at the Sorbonne I did translation work for a haulage firm in Moscow – Roschenkov Shipping Haulage. They got me the job with Moondog; they have money in it. I didn’t know half of what was going on. Crack and Meth into the UK, cannabis out, yes, I guessed at and was too afraid to go to the police. Vodka in and Newcastle Brown Ale out was the official haulage mostly. I had no idea about the people trafficking and the enforced prostitution until my last few months making those retched, dreadful films. I swear!”

“Do you know the name of this man, who smashed up Waleria’s bedsit and beat up you?”

“No. He’s English and has worked for the Roschekovs as bouncer, bodyguard, minder and enforcer. This is what Walli said. She called him a psycho. I am only 50% certain that is who attacked me, as I caught only a glimpse of him as he drove away from Walli’s place and again, he smashed my face into the wall and as I told DC Hooper, it was raining so hard it was difficult to see anyway, without one’s own blood on one’s face. Walli told me that the Roschenkovs are in prison. I think they are trying to silence anyone who could testify. It sounds crazy, but then the elder son is. I worked for the father, but I believe he and his wife were killed by the Russian Mafia sometime after I left Moscow. The older son, Yuri, is dangerously mad.”

“I know.” Hathaway spoke flatly, his eyes were inscrutable, all the softness and sympathy had gone from them. But he didn’t look hard and indifferent, Anton thought, but brittle. As if he may crumble.

 

*

 

When James arrived back at the station he was directed to the room behind the mirror in interview room five. Innocent was there as well as Lewis. She gestured with her finger for silence. Milyutin’s possible evidence but possible motive could wait. James felt he was innocent, but alibis regarding this public lecture had to be checked, along with his lack of access to any car. He left the room again to get uniform and DCs onto the chasing, and also to inform Hooper of the possible identification of Cope as Milyutin’s attacker. The assault was Hooper’s case, after all. All of it took him less than fifteen minutes, so, curiosity getting the better of him, James returned to the room to watch with Lewis and Innocent. He may, after all, get the opportunity to brief them on the information from Milyutin.

The table had been removed from the middle of the interview room, as had the four upright chairs. Instead a rug had been placed in the middle with four easy chairs in the corners of the room. On the rug was a small sandbox and scattered around it were various small plastic dolls with opposable arms and legs. The dolls were different sizes and colours and represented different ages, genders and dress. One that looked rather like a thin fashion doll was dressed as Waleria had been that night and was sat in the sandbox. In the opposite corner of the sandbox lay a girl doll with blonde bunches. Scattered all over the floor and rug were pieces of paper and felt tips, many showing evidence that Crina had been busy with her cave art. 

Mick Brown was sat in one seat, looking awkward and uncomfortable, obviously finding it hard to remain silent and say nothing or interact with his niece in any way. Another man, tall, thin, mixed race, in an expensive suit and hair styled in a long, crazy upward quiff, sat in another seat, the same side of the room as Brown. He had a notepad and pen on his lap and a briefcase and laptop case sat on the floor at his feet, a pile of papers balanced on top of them. The solicitor, no doubt, Hathaway reasoned. However, his eyes were drawn to the people in the centre of the room.

A young woman with her blonde hair tied back scruffily, wearing jeans and a pale blue vest top and chunky beaded necklace and matching bangles and a man’s black wrist watch was seated on the floor next to Crina as she was drawing her stick people and animals and was asking, by the reactions of the adults, yet again for a larger canvas and real paints. As Hathaway came to stand between Innocent and Lewis the woman, the play therapist, asked Crina to explain about all the things flint was used for in the ‘Stone Age’.

 

*

 

Meanwhile, not too far away in interview room one, Peterson was interviewing his ‘hitman’, his arrestee. They had found him a duty solicitor and he was being very unhelpful regarding anything. However, of one thing Peterson was becoming surer of: this man was no professional. If anything, he was an imbecile. Desperate for money, and cooperating after a fashion, sure, but he really didn’t seem to know who hired him or why.

There was a knock at the door and Peterson’s sergeant got up and opened it, coming back with a hand written note he put down in front of his governor. It told him that, under another investigation entirely, Customs and Excise working with the Met., had been taping the Roschekovs calls out of the Remand Centre at Aylesbury for the past three weeks and had only just deigned to share the information with their colleagues in Oxford, despite some of it concerning one of their officers. The transcripts were waiting for him in encrypted e-mail. He was not to share.

“We’re not getting anywhere, are we Matthew Basden? Interview terminated at oh ten oh six. For a comfort break and a chance to think things over. But I must tell you, Mr. Basden, I’ve had information to tell me you were employed by the Roschenkovs – one step down from Russian Mafia,” Peterson bluffed.

“Who?!” Basden seemed genuinely confused.

 

*

Peterson needed to talk to the Chief, desperately. He was told she was observing the interview with the little girl suspect. He couldn’t interrupt. Dammit! It was nearly eleven. He was going for an early lunch and a pint. How dare he be restricted in what he shared? They were not talking terrorism, but drugs and people trafficking. He knew the one funded the other in many cases, but with the Roschenkovs he doubted it. If he had been given these transcripts one day earlier he could have prevented that nutter taking a pot shot at Hathaway. He doubted Basden had any idea who he had been hired by, but no doubt this cope was the go between.

Peterson got as far as the Head of the River before turning around to go back and push Basden into giving him Cope’s name. Then, at least, he could bring him in. Why give him this information if he couldn’t act on it. But first he would chase Hathaway, take his statement. At least the truth of that would give him enough to bluff with to intimidate this young thug with too many guns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have seen the ITV documentary, you may be feeling a bit confused. This is Aylesbury Remand Centre, run for Thames Valley by a private security company, situated in the same town as HMS Prison Aylesbury. Lovely town (not sacasm - spend many a happy Saturday there being spoiled by grandparents).


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth about Crina's possible involvement - or worse - and what she knows or thinks - is finally uncovered.

In interview room five Dr. Jasper still sat on the floor with Crina, walking the adult woman doll in the high heels and short skirt across the sandpit. She was encouraging Crina to see the doll act as Waleria, voicing her for Crina. In Crina’s hand was the little girl doll with the blonde hair. Crina had been allowed to change the dolls clothes so now the child doll was in pink pyjamas. Crina stood her doll on the rim of the sandpit and made it shout at the doll in the doctor’s hand.

“Leave me alone! Leave us alone! I am happy with my uncles. Mama wanted me happy. She wants you to stop the bad things and be happy. She wants me to be with Uncle Dimi. You are a bad person. You made Mama sick and die! I hate you! I hate you! I am glad you are dead!”

“Crina,” Dr. Jasper asked gently, “did you kill Walli?”

Crina started to cry, saying she didn’t mean to. Further gentle questioning revealed that Crina woke up on the floor and her Uncle was sound asleep. She suddenly remembered the big piece of flint that she wasn’t allowed to bring home and went to fetch it, she had hidden by the big oak tree on the edge of the field, putting on her wellies and taking her torch. She was quick; she heard nothing but the owls and the noise of a car a long way away. When she got back to the door Auntie Walli was walking up from the cottage. She wanted to come in, she wanted to stay the night or borrow more money from Uncle Dimi – but, 

“We have no money ’til Uncle Mick gets paid!” 

She shouted at Walli to go away, go sleep in the wood or the bus stop, or walk home! Walli had called her a stupid little bitch and told her to wake her Uncle or she would. She turned to the bedroom window and raised her voice to shout for Dimi. Crina was scared that Dimi would find out she was sneaking out at night so she shouted at Walli to go away with bad words and threw the special flint she had found. It hit Walli on the back of the head. Walli had put her hand to the back of her head and looked at her hand, which had some blood on it. She stared at and then glared at Crina. 

“Alright, I go,” she had said. “You are a little bitch, just like your mother. Just like your uncle!” she spat out and then she walked away, holding her head again. She staggered a bit but Crina watched her ’til she couldn’t see her in the dark.

“And then I went back inside and took my wellies off and snuggled down next to Uncle Dimi on the floor and watched the last story on the Peppa Pig DVD – it was The Power one. But she must have fallen over coz her head was hurting her so much and she was wobbling in her high-heeled working boots and the she died! I didn’t mean it! I wanted her to go away!”

Mick whispered something to the solicitor who said gently, “And you are sure that your DVD was still playing?”

“Yes, I am Anthony,” Crina nodded her head.

“That DVD takes an hour, maybe five minutes longer with the trailers, so my client’s uncle tells me. If the DVD was put on as soon as she stopped shouting to be let in, she couldn’t have gone far before she turned back. It puts the timing at eight, quarter past eight at the most. And you have witnesses speaking to her on the phone and seeing her at the bus stop in Aston at gone nine thirty. I suggest you have your answer. My client may have thrown a rock at the victim, but she wouldn’t have done much harm, and certainly it appeared she was merely annoyed by my victim, no more. You must let her go and remove her DNA and fingerprints from your data base as she is underage.” At this the solicitor looked through the mirror, knowing the investigating officer would be there.

Dr. Jasper nodded and also glanced at the mirror. Then she turned back to Crina and knelt up in front of her. “Crina. You did not kill your Auntie Walli. It is very important you understand this. People saw her and spoke to her hours after you threw the rock at her head. You are a little girl and it would not have hurt her much. The flint was sharp – you know from the Stone Age you love to read about that it can be very sharp – that is why you made her bleed. But it was only a little bit.”

“There was lots of blood! In the grass where the yellow police ribbon is!”

Dr. Jasper looked over Crina’s head to the solicitor and her uncle.

“Auntie Walli had a very big cut on the front of her head. That is what made all the blood. Not the little scratch the flint made at the back. I promise you Crina,” Anthony reassured. He waved a bundle of papers at her. “Inspector Lewis gave me a copy of all the information he and Sergeant Hathaway have about what might have happened to your Mama’s friend.”

“You see?” Dr. Jasper reinforced. “I can understand why you thought like you did, and it is never right to throw stones and rocks at people.”

“Or anything,” Mick added, nodding.

“I can understand you were frightened that Auntie Walli would take you away, but I promise you Crina, I won’t ever let that happen,” Anthony reassured.

“You don’t really hate Auntie Walli, either, do you?” Mick added, getting up and picking Crina up and a huge, tight hug, something he’d been desperate to do since she had started crying.

“I do. And I don’t. Sergeant Hathaway says dead people don’t hurt anyone, so Mama and Auntie Walli are living together without fighting now, aren’t they? As stars? In heaven?”

“I think so,” Mick murmured.

“And it wasn’t me?”

“No,” Anthony and Dr. Jasper both reassured firmly.

“Then who did?” Crina asked, puzzled.

“We don’t know,” Dr. Jasper replied. “But it is Inspector Lewis’ job to find out.”

“With Sergeant Hathaway’s help,” Crina added. “He plays in a band, you know?”

“Can we go now?” Anthony asked, looking at the mirror.

“I’ll check,” Dr. Jasper replied, standing. She left the room to consult with Lewis. Innocent was still behind the mirror too. They agreed to let her go. Dr. Jasper went back in the room to tell Crina and the adults she could go.

“Can I keep little dolly me?” Crina asked, waving the small plastic doll at the play therapist. Louise Jasper nodded and smiled, relieved that the child was innocent, thankful that the pathologist and forensics had done the work on the timing of the injuries, the discovery of the body and the timing of the death. Also thankful that now the adults around Crina would be able to reassure her that she had not killed her ‘auntie’. Poor Crina. She had believed that she must have caused her death and had been keeping it all a secret, terrified of being in trouble.

For Innocent and Lewis it was back to square one. Fortunately, James was able to point out the possible connections to the Roschenkovs and Simon Cope that Professor Milyutin had shared, also the professor’s connection to Waleria and possible connection to Dumitre. Hooper had already been dispatched with uniform to question Cope on Milyutin’s very likely identification of him as the man who had assaulted him.

As soon as the three detectives exited the room Peterson seized them, informing Lewis and Hathaway that Hooper could not locate Cope and politely but very firmly requested an immediate interview with Innocent.

 

*

Peterson followed Innocent up to her office while Hathaway turned towards theirs, but Lewis stalled him with a gentle touch to his elbow.

“I could do with some fresh air. C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

“Gladly. Providing I can smoke?”

“If you must.”

Whilst they walked in Christchurch Meadow, Hathaway brought Lewis up to speed on Milyutin, on his connection to Waleria; of the fact that he had visited her in her bedsit after the man believed to have been Simon Cope,

“He said she had called the man who had wrecked her home a ‘psycho’ but I believe Simon Cope is known as Sico, Sir. He also thinks it is the same man who assaulted him. He won’t swear to it, of course, but I’m of the same opinion as Hooper and the young PC who attended – he knows more than he is letting on.”

“Ah well, his assault isn’t our case. One thing at a time James, the possible murder of this poor lass. What else did he say about her?”

“He admits to causing the bruising to the throat. She was blackmailing him and from what I could gather she assaulted him and he momentarily lost control. He regrets it, seemed very ashamed of himself.”

“As he should be. But blackmail? Did he see her professionally, not just for his research interviews?”

Hathaway snorted. “Far from it Sir. Not his type at all. He had a very different connection to the ‘oldest profession’.”

“Ah. I see. I think. Well, it’s not relevant to us what he did.” Lewis continued to walk along the sandy path beside the Cherwell. Hathaway followed in his wake, startled when he stopped suddenly. “Or is it?”

“Cope is an enforcer,” Hathaway replied thoughtfully, thinking it through. “Someone could have paid him to threaten both Waleria and Professor Milyutin.”

“Maybe. What else did you get from him?”

Hathaway began to continue to describe more of his interview at the John Radcliffe with the sociology professor and the outcome but was interrupted by his phone,

“Hathaway.” He wandered away from Lewis, nearer to the river, to listen. Lewis watched his sergeant, and then the river, the light playing on gentle ripples in the water, the reflections of the willows and beeches. A swan glided past, and then a group of ducks swam past, quacking noisily. He realised he cherished every single one of these few calm moments in a day that he could grab. He didn’t rate himself a spiritual man, much less a philosopher or poet, unlike his old boss and mentor, or like James, or even in her much less educated, quoting way, his Val, but he knew one of the reasons he could face with equanimity all the horrors of his job were these few moments of seized peace and nature like this one.

Hathaway stepped out of the shadow of the trees and back on to the path beside him. Lewis was caught by the equal beauty of the sun playing on James’ yellow blond hair. He liked the fact James had grown it a small bit, liked the way James could style it in so many ways with such a short crop. Today it was a little fifties quiff, like a film star from back when he was a wee kid sneaking into the movies. The breeze caught it and it ruffled in the air, the dappled sun through the low hung willow branches dappling James with light as much as it did the river. When did he realise he appreciated the beauty of his sergeant so much? James now interrupted his thoughts of beauty and love, bringing him back to practicalities,

“Sir?”

“Sorry James. Lost it me thoughts. What was that all about?”

Hathaway gave a little smile, just a small smirk to show he found his boss daydreaming amusing. He had been very solemn all day, more so that usual, but it wasn’t really at all surprising to Lewis, not the night and morning poor James had had. Typical of him to just block it all out and carry on with work as if nothing had happened.

“It looks very different in day light,” James was now saying. Surprised, Lewis realised James was acknowledging the previous nights’ adventure, however obscurely. Still, the lad would not want a fuss,

“Still not want to take a dip,” he replied gently, but he couldn’t stop himself grabbing James’ hand for a moment. “Alright then?”

“Fine.” But he squeezed Lewis’ hand back before he pulled his own away from the tender grasp. “I’ve still not given my statements to Peterson.”

“Action man can wait. Unless that was him?” Lewis nodded toward Hathaway’s phone.

“Oh? No Sir. Ngoti. I set him and Mercer a little task of digging on Miluytin.”

“And?”

“His alibis all check out. He was giving a public lecture all evening, plenty of witnesses. Before that he called in for a sandwich at Art’s – the staff all know him, he’s a regular. They get some Russian speciality bread in for him, apparently.”

“So, no time to get to Aston Bassett between nine thirty and eleven then?”

“Not very likely Sir. He also left Waleria in Abingdon the time he says he did – Julie has found him on Oxford City Bus’ CCTV, getting on about ten minutes after he said he left her at the Boundary House stop in Abingdon and getting off in the city some twenty minutes later, and less than five minutes after that we have him witnessed in Art’s and then his lecture. Not him sir. Not possible. And also Sir, Mercer has made checks on whether he can even drive at all, let alone had access to a car. He’s not had a licence, not here or France or back home in Russia.”

“Two cleared suspects in an hour – not that I’m grateful mind. I was bloody relieved to clear wee Crina.”

“Me too sir,” Hathaway agreed wholeheartedly.

“We need to finf this Cope then. He wrecked her flat and I’m betting the other bruising is down to him too.”

“Plus,” Hathaway added as he pulled his phone back out of his pocket, “he lives in one of the mobile homes in the field where the body was found.”

*

“I’m sorry Inspector, I can’t just issue a warrant for his arrest on your say so. Not without a shred of suspicion, let alone evidence.” Innocent leaned forward over her desk, despairing, realising Peterson’s hands had been tied by the Met., Customs and Excise and Immigration

“I’m sorry Ma’am, but the Met. were insistent I can’t share...”

“I think they will bloody well once I’ve phoned their superior...”

“Ma’am. The shooter, Basden. He is Cope’s cousin, and Cope has a record an arm long for assault and battery...”

“This isn’t a police state Peterson! We can’t arrest a suspect’s relatives just on the off chance!”

“What if he also may have a connection to DI Lewis’ case Ma’am?”

“Then it’s up to Lewis to request the warrant. Look,” Innocent tried to soften her voice, “do you not think I don’t want everyone connected to the attacks on Hathaway prosecuted to the full extent of the law? You weren’t here three months ago Alan, you didn’t see what they did to him!” Jean was surprised at how her voice had begun to shake. “now, you get me a shred of evidence and I’ll get you the warrant. In the meantime, if I don’t get a move on I’ll be late for my meeting.”

Innocent stood up and grabbed her cardigan and handbag. “Well! What do you want? Go Inspector!”

“Ma’am.” Peterson turned tail and fled.

Innocent sighed and followed him out. It had taken her almost an hour first thing that morning to insist on this meeting with the CPS and the Prison Service as soon as possible; it would not help her case one bit to turn up late. She would get the Roschenkovs separated and Yuri reassessed by a second psychiatrist. She’d been in on most of the interviews with Laxton and observed the rest through the window; that man was a lunatic, a dangerous influence on his much younger brother. Apart, Sergei was bound to co-operate with all the cases various services were prosecuting against them rather than being coerced into translation work over the phone in prison whilst Yuri ran his ‘businesses’.

*

Si was on the phone to the Roschenkovs’ ‘lawyer’ this time, rather than his bosses, who were apparently having trouble getting to the phone in the Remand Centre. He was being relayed more instructions, this time in a rather cryptic fashion, as was the threat to him if he didn’t follow those given instructions. As he listened he watched the caravan opposite, his landlords’ home. Now might be a perfect opportunity to do this last bit of enforcing the Roschenkovs needed.

But he didn’t want to.

He couldn’t.

Si watched as the door opened and Dumitre limped down the steps stickless, dumping a large zip up laundry bag on the grass. A much smaller one followed. He went back inside and moments later Crina jumped down the steps one at a time. Dumitre followed, locking the door. This time he had his walking stick. He picked up the larger bag and wobbling, unbalanced, began a slow walk across the grass to the cottage, stick barely supporting him on the weak left as he carried the heavy laundry in his stronger right. Crina followed, looking very self-important and proud, carrying the much smaller bag in front of her in both her small hands. She too staggered under the weight.

Si was torn, as a good neighbour he should offer assistance. But Mick was here, somewhere, now, and he was a possessive bastard. That Si was utterly straight would make no difference. Besides, Dumitre was touchy and sometimes didn’t like being offered help. Didn’t want to admit to himself how sick and crippled he was, Si guessed.

Si also knew that offering a lift to Sutton Bassett’s shopping parade and laundrette would make things easier. But he didn’t want things made easy. He wanted an excuse to say it was impossible. In fact, he wanted out of the Roschenkovs’ employ all together and that, sadly, was impossible apart from the one way. And that he did not want at all!

*

Peterson was pacing in Lewis’ office when Lewis and Hathaway returned from their walk in the Meadow.

“Inspector?” Lewis said, as neutrally as he could, his hackles rising yet again despite himself. What was it about Peterson that got to him like that?

“Hi. Sorry Lewis. I need Hathaway for his statement. Ready Sergeant?”

Hathaway glanced at his boss and then back to Peterson. “Um...?”

“Go on James. It’s procedure. You know you have to. It won’t take long. I’ll get Hooper to sort out that Russian professor, alright?”

“Won’t take long at all,” Peterson said gently, smiling at James reassuringly, opening the door for him. Hathaway decided Peterson could be quite charming and stopped worrying about the statement.

Lewis stared after the retreating men’s backs, thinking Peterson was a smarmy git.

*

Crina obediently stood in the doorway of the cottage. It was mostly concrete, rubble and brick dust inside and her uncles told her it was dangerous. Crina could never imagine it looking like a proper house. He uncles could, they talked about it a lot, but Crina thought it a silly pretend game for grown-ups, this one day home and business – bedrooms and a living room for them, other bedrooms for holiday people, a big dining room and more holiday people in the caravans. B and B her uncles called it.

She could tell it was dangerous though, which was why she never argued and stayed on the doorstep. Right now she could hear her uncles arguing. Uncle Mick was not going to drive them to the laundrette. He was ‘in the middle of things’ and ‘up to his eyes in it’. Whatever that meant. English was a funny language Crina had decided by the time she had been four. Now she was nearly seven she had not changed her mind. Sometimes though she thought she was forgetting Romanian, she had already forgotten Russian and yet before Auntie Walli there had been Jaska and he and Mama had always talked Russian. Maybe even Jaska was her father and that made her half-Russian. It was bad to forget languages and facts. Not bad to forget other things, like Jaska’s shouting and the way he smelt or Auntie Walli yelling. Or the hitting. But Crina could not forget those things, although she never told anyone and pretended she had.

She didn’t like her uncles to row or shout or yell. They didn’t very often. Not like Mama or Jaska or Auntie Walli. She wished they would stop.

*

James sat again the wrong side of the table. He started picking at the skin at the side of his thumb with his teeth.

“Alright Sergeant, this won’t take long. We already have the bastard in custody and enough witnesses. We just need to go through last night as well as this morning, okay?”

James nodded vaguely, his mind taking him back, thinking of DI Laxton sitting opposite him.

“Okay James? I can call you James?”

James nodded again.

“Cup of tea? Coffee? Before we start. I appreciate it feels weird to be the wrong side of the table, as it were.”

“Not for the first time,” James replied.

“Ah. Yeah. I’m sorry if this is making you feel uncomfortable.”

“S’alright,” James said quietly, brusquely, looking down.

“You must have been through hell.” Peterson slid his hand across the table and gently touched James’ hand before withdrawing it quickly, as if uncertain he had done the right thing. James looked up, startled, and saw nothing but kind compassion and sympathy in the Inspector’s eyes. He felt that he and Robbie had misjudged him, or to be accurate, Robbie Lewis had misjudged the man and he had gone along with his boss’, or rather his boyfriend’s, impressions of him. He hurriedly looked down again after briefly meeting Peterson’s gentle, kind gaze, nodding an affirmation. He couldn’t argue with the assertion. It had been hell and sometimes he felt he was still there.

“Tell you what James. You write me your statement, put it on my desk, signed, and Innocent and Lewis don’t need to know we didn’t quite do this by the book. That okay with you?”

James nodded again, this time enthusiastically. “Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.

“You go outside, have a smoke and a coffee, give yourself long enough then go back to your inspector. Just have that statement on my desk by the end of the day.”

*

Dimi tried to hide his frustration with Mick as he walked as purposefully as he could with a heavy bag in one hand and relying on his stick for the weaker other side of his body. Crina was now dragging the other bag, stopping every now and then to look at wayside flowers or watch insects or birds. Her dress and cardigan pockets were full of pebbles, stones, pinecones and beech husks. Dimi thought vaguely about a nature collage or making a little nature display on the smaller coffee table and about getting a book or two from the library. Crina had missed out on pre-school and reception class at school and had spent the last year and a half in and out of six different schools already. Mick had managed to capture an interest in history; perhaps he needed to do the same with science. Except, what did he know about science? He had planned to be a linguist before... it all went wrong, and when he had come out the other side and he had Mick first set up home together he had begun an access course in law at Brookes University planning to get into asylum and immigration law and support others who were in the situation he had been. But then he got sick and he had struggled to keep going, then the Lupus was diagnosed and then Crina arrived and life had changed. Perhaps he shouldn’t make plans? Still, how hard could it be to learn and teach key stage one science? It couldn’t be so...

What was that?

He and Crina had just left the lane to go down the alley between the edge of the small council estate of Aston Bassett on the one side and the large National Trust woodland on the other. He had heard the squeal of tyres as a vehicle had just entered the alley behind them.

Dumitre stopped and turned. Crina was also staring down the dark path.

“It’s Fat Simon’s van,” she said.

“Yes, it is.” Dumitre put down his bag next to Crina’s small one and put his hand on her shoulder. Together they watched Simon get out of his van and walk towards them, a large wooden baton in his right hand. He was swinging it, hitting his left palm with it, as he walked towards them.

“Simon?”

“Sorry Dimi. I don’t want to do this.”

“Do what?”

“But I don’t have any choice.”

“Of course you have a choice Simon.” Dumitre squeezed Crina’s shoulder and whispered urgently, “Fetch Uncle Mick.”

“I don’t Dimi,” Simon was saying as he walked towards him. “It’s me or you.”

“Why? Why me?”

“You know too much. My bosses don’t want you telling.”

“What? What do I know?”

“Moondog.”

“What? You’re a bit late Simon. I’ve already testified three years ago.”

“About who owns them. About the Roschenkovs.”

“Who?” Dimi gave Crina a little push. “Run sufletel.” He turned to face Simon squarely, bracing himself on the balls of his feet, lifting his walking stick and holding it in both hands in front of him. “I didn’t know who ran Moondog until now you complete idiot Simon. Why don’t you just get back in your van and we’re say no more. Okay?”

*

Peterson came back up to Lewis’ office as Innocent, Hobson and Lewis were assembled around the incident board. Pictures of Waleria Nowicka’s body in situ from various angles were topped with a photo someone had obviously found in her room and pinned up. Her hair was plaited and she wore no make-up in the picture, making her look like a young innocent girl barely out of school, she couldn’t have looked less like a tart in that photo, Peterson mused. He stood to one side, out of Innocent’s view.

“Not possible,” Lewis was saying, drawing a line through the name Anton Milyutin, third on the list. Lines were also – thankfully in one case – scored through Crina Kobori and Dumitre Brown. “He has verifiable alibis from hundreds of people and CCTV footage, even if he could have got himself out there at all, which he couldn’t.”

“But he admits to the strangling?” Innocent demanded.

“Well, he doesn’t call it that in his statement.” Lewis sighed and rubbed at his eye. “But yup. He does. He calls it ‘getting carried away in a moment of self defence’. Says she attacked him. Hooper just got a DNA sample from him, which he was happy to provide. Told us too that she and her digs were roughed up before he got there.”

“The DNA should match that taken from under her fingernails, or mostly. There was a partial second DNA fingerprint found,” Hobson interjected.

“Aye, or mostly,” Lewis agreed.

“So now we’ve ruled out the obvious suspects, where do we go Robbie? And is this even a murder at all Laura?” Innocent demanded. “Not that I’m not immensely relieved that the little girl didn’t do it, but what the hell do we have now, nearly 48 hours on?”

“We’re all relieved Jean,” Hobson replied carefully. “And – I don’t know. it seems more likely, given the force of the blunt blow to her right parietal and the broken neck that she was pushed, or flung, with some considerable force. But...”

“But?”

“I can’t rule out an unfortunate accident, especially given how malnourished and inebriated she was. There are no witnesses and no conclusive forensics to tell us one way or another. I can’t rule, so you will just have to wait for the Coroner at the Inquest, which I have requested to have brought forward to tomorrow morning.”

“Right. In the meantime Robbie, let’s have more on all of them up there at those caravans. This Tim Jones, he knew her before. His fiancée, did she know about her, was she jealous? This Cope, he has form, does he have a possible motive? The other guardian of the girl, this Mick Brown. Was he really in Devon, has that been checked? He could have driven up earlier and killed her. He has motive – his partner threatened and her wanting to have this little girl in her care. And what about the girls in the victim’s house? Money troubles? Man troubles? Rivalries? Jealousies?”

“I am aware of all this Ma’am. Mick Brown, yes we did get the Devon police to check. Working with stonemason and labourers until gone seven then in the village pub, his workmates and vicar plus landlord and others all witnesses. There was a lock in ’til midnight, some local’s birthday, and then he went to his van to sleep, and plenty of people to testify the van never moved ’til his husband called him up here at nearly four yesterday. As for the other stuff Ma’am, we are working on it...”

“Then see to it Robbie! It seems to me you’ve been using all your resources on the one suspect and neglecting the rest.” Innocent turned and stormed off, leaving Lewis glancing despairingly at Hobson in her wake.

“Aye,” he muttered, “but her highness there wanted me to concentrate on wee Crina ’til she was cleared or charged.” He shrugged.

“Pay no attention. She’s probably just had a bollocking e-mail from the Chief constable about poor clear-up rates or something.” Hobson smiled. 

Lewis grinned back. 

“Must go. See you in the white Horse later, maybe, or do and James have plans?”

“No, no plans, but I reckon he could do with a bit of TLC, don’t you? After all the lad’s been through and whatnot.”

Hobson glanced around the office. Mercer was at her desk looking on the monitor; Ngoti was sat on Mercer’s desk, on the phone; Hooper was standing by the printer and Davis by the water cooler drinking. Strangely, Peterson was lurking in the doorway for goodness sakes! Robbie was just no good at subtefuge, she mused. “you’re a good boss Robbie, and a good friend, to that boy,” she said a little louder than she needed. His bows furrowed, a little confused, before he answered,

“I hope so. I try to be nice to everyone, I hope.”

“You do Robbie, you do. But I must dash. I’m needed in the labs. Alan,” she added, nodding to Peterson as she left. He smiled hopefully at her, giving her yet another of those irritating brown puppy-dog eyed looks as he did so. She really needed to put him in his place. And fast.

Lewis looked across to Peterson. “Where’s Hathaway?”

“I sent him for a coffee and a smoke. Looked like he needed it. didn’t think you’d mind?”

“I don’t. What do you want then?”

“Simon Cope. Have you not thought to bring him in yet?”

Lewis felt his hackles rise again. He had in fact dispatched uniform to find him earlier that day as Cope had ignored several polite telephone requests from DC Hooper to come in and explain his van’s presence outside Waleria’s house hours before her death and to volunteer fingerprints and a DNA sample as his neighbours had all done. Once that was done, Lewis knew Hooper had planned to then question Cope on Milyutin’s assault after the professor’s inadvertent revelation to Hathaway. However, now Peterson was suggesting it and instead of confirming it was being done Lewis snapped, “Why the hell would I? He arrived back at his caravan after SOCO had arrived at the scene and CCTV at Abingdon MacDonald’s and the A34/A415 interchange lay-by place him firmly there at the estimated time of death.”

“But he has form, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but he has no history of harming a woman. He’s been a bit heavy-handed as both a doorman and a debt-collector to other men plus a couple of bar-brawls in his youth. As far as we know, he’s never harmed a woman.”

“But you have circumstantial, which is more than I do. It would do me a favour, that’s all.”

Why the hell would I want to do you a favour? Lewis thought angrily. Instead, he simply demanded, “Why?”

“Because he’s the shooter’s cousin. Because I have information I’m forbidden on acting on or sharing from the Met., Immigration and Customs and Excise that he is connected to the Roschenkovs. That’s why!”

“Shit. Sorry. And I’ve already dispatched uniform to bring him in for questioning. He was seen at Waleria’s bedsit a few hours before she died. It’s all we have. Not enough for an arrest. Although he is also wanted on suspicion of an assault tow days ago – all circumstantial though, not helped by the fact the victim won’t cooperate and reveal his attacker’s identity, and not enough for an actual arrest yet either. But that’s DC Hooper’s case. Sorry. But you’re welcome to question him after Hooper and I’m done. Once uniform have bloody found him, of course.”

“Thanks.” Peterson left, yet again wondering why Lewis seemed to hate him so much. As far as he could see there was nothing going on between him and Hobson other than a long-standing working relationship that had grown into a deep platonic friendship. But perhaps he had missed something; perhaps he was treading on his toes. Chance of Hobson noticing him anyway was so very slight however a fine thing it would be if she ever did!

*

Hathaway had tapped out his brief statements concerning the break-in and assault the previous night and the shooting that morning on his Blackberry while sitting on the steps at the back of the station with a coffee and a couple of cigarettes. He had then snuck into the back office of the desk sergeant to print them when the call came in from Control. Tracey looked up from taking the call and saw him so handed him the information.

It was worrying, and important, but fortunately for him – and Peterson – Hathaway had the presence of mind to grab the statements from the printer and shove them into his inside jacket packet before running, two stairs at a time, up to CID and Lewis.

 

“Sir! Sir!” he puffed.

Lewis looked up. He was back in his interior private office he shared with James, his notes, diagrams and charts from that morning spread over his desk. Lewis sat behind it, leaning back giving himself an overview, mug of tea in one hand, Mars Bar in the other.

“What in God’s name has got into you James?”

“A call Sir, from cows Lea close in Aston Bassett Sir. A fight. Or assault. Ambulance and squad car dispatched and on route.”

“Well, it’s a coincidence, a mile and a bit from our crime scene in a quiet little hamlet, but still...”

“One man tall, thin, long-haired, possibly disabled, the other one thickset, shaven and tattooed. And a small girl reported running away from the fight screaming. An elderly woman made the call, was too scared to go after the child a she’d have to pass the men, she said to Control. It was the child that made her so prompt in her reporting.”

Lewis put down his tea and snack. “Crina?” he stood and grabbed his jacket. “C’mon, let’s give uniform a hand.”

“Sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this has got a little Peterson heavy. My daughter, in the recent months of home-education has got addicted to   
> Heartbeat and The Royal on ITV3 in the middle of the day - our break between her tutor and swimming/library and workbooks/research/free study/art and crafts/museum trips and drama classes :) Consequently DI Alan Peterson and PC Mike Bradley have kind of merged in my mind as the one police officer! I would apologise for Peteson possibly being ooc but I get the feeling Jason Durr just played Peterson as a modern Bradley anyway :)
> 
> I now have 4 days of respite (yay!) and hope to actually get this finished, if not posted in that time. No promises...


	10. Chapter 10

When Lewis’ car pulled up at the close an ambulance was parked across the entrance to the alleyway, a panda car pulled up on the green opposite, a second down the road. People stood around their gates watching, a group of youths standing with an officer, the other with an elderly woman who was sitting on a brick wall. The ambulance doors were open and Dumitre could be seen lying on the bed while a paramedic was examining him. Outside talking to the ambulance technician was Mick, holding a crying Crina in his arms. Hathaway could see Mick’s white van pulled up behind the ambulance. Two officers were struggling with Cope, handcuffed behind his back, behind the ambulance in the alley. Hathaway didn’t see that at first, but heard it as he jumped out of the car as Lewis brought the car to a stop. He rushed straight over to Crina as Lewis legged it to the alley to assist the two officers.

“A CID presence Sir?” Hathaway heard one of the policemen ask as Lewis joined in restraining Cope. He was aware of his boss explaining that Cope had been ignoring requests for assistance in his murder investigation and was wanted for questioning by DC Hooper and DI Peterson on two more separate inquiries, but Hathaway turned his focus to Mick Brown,

“Was she harmed?”

“I ran away James. I got Uncle Mick.”

“Yes you did, you were so brave. I don’t think Si would have hurt her. I don’t know why he went for Dimi like that.”

“What happened?”

“I told Dimi I couldn’t take him to the laundrette. Oh God, if only I had... he went off in a huff to the bus rather than wait ’til later. Next thing I know it’s nearly an hour later and Crina is running up the lane screaming. Old Mr. Haycock came hobbling up to fetch me while Mrs. Haycock tried to calm her down and gave her a drink – she’d been running the whole near mile you see. I fetched the van and when I got here the police were already here. They were fighting with Si and Dimi was on the ground bleeding and...” Mick turned his head. “I thought... I thought...”

“Then the other policemen came and then the ambulance,” Crina finished for her uncle. “But Uncle Dimi is going to be okay Uncle Mick.”

Hathaway looked to the technician who nodded. One of the neighbours who had been standing at the gate came up to them holding a mug of tea. She looked to Hathaway who inclined his head slightly, indicating permission for her to interrupt. She gave the tea to Mick and handed Crina a lollypop. “You come with me ducks. Let your Uncle drink his tea.” Crina nodded and jumped down and went with the woman who took her other mug to the old lady sitting on her wall.

“I take it she is the one who made the call?” Hathaway nodded over to the woman, directing his question to the officer with her.

“Two shouts Sergeant, this lady here and those lads. They’d got the bastard off the victim and were chasing him when they got here.” He indicated the two policemen, who with Lewis, were escorting Cope to the squad car on the green.

“My boss will want to speak to you all I expect. And Mr. Brown. Is he okay?”

The paramedic stood and came to the back door of the ambulance. “Five minutes, no more. He has three possible breaks and although I’ve given pain relief, with Lupus the bruising is going to cause more pain soon, never mind the fractures and possible breaks. And make it now, we’re going to get off now I’ve made him comfortable.”

Hathaway glanced to Lewis, who was still struggling with Cope who was still fighting the inevitable and was digging his heels in and refusing to bend to sit in the back seat of the car. “Two minutes then,” he said, climbing into the ambulance. The paramedic jumped out and shut the door.

“Hi,” Hathaway said gently, stooping a lot. He sat down on the seat opposite the bed. 

“Hello. It’s Sergeant Hathaway, isn’t it? I remember. I don’t often meet someone taller than me.” Dumitre tried to grin but he winced. His face was a mass if bruising, two black eyes and a split lip. Hathaway winced in sympathy; it wasn’t so many weeks ago his own face had been as badly beaten. But Dumitre was a lot worse of than he had been, with his left arm and leg in temporary inflatable splints and an IV line had been set up delivering pain relief.

“Yes, it is. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Well, what happened, that’s eas.y Simon Cope beat me up. His van revved up the alley, he jumped out, baton in hand and threatened me and then lay into me. I managed to delay it until Crina had got away. As for why, that’s a bit harder.”

Hathaway’s lips twitched into a tight smile. “Ah. I’m afraid that was exactly what I was about to ask you.”

“He told me his employers wanted me silent. I told him he was three years late, I’d already testified against the pimps and pornographers. He told me it was their employers, the people who had put money into Moondog and the people trafficking. I didn’t even know it all went back to the same organised crime but...” Dumitre tried to smile again and instead gasped with pain.

“But?”

“But Simon is a moron, as thick as a brick, a plank, any very thick thing you want! He told me the names of the bosses I hadn’t even heard of. The Roschenkovs. Mean anything to you?”

Hathaway ran his hands through his hair and looked down, his face closed and tight. “Uh-huh. Yeah. They mean something to me alright.”

“I won’t be intimidated Sergeant. I will testify again if my previous experiences are relevant to another force’s on-going investigation. And of course, against Simon.” Dumitre’s face twisted into a painful grin again, “And evict him, of course.”

“Oh. Of course. Thank you Mr. Brown.” Hathaway stood, then sat down again. “Um.”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you something? It’s personal and not really relevant.”

Dumitre would have shrugged if he could move without wanting to yell with pain. “Sure.”

“Why did you take Mick’s surname? I didn’t even know you could do that.”

“Well, as far as my family was concerned, with me being gay and marrying a man, never mind my enforced prostitution, I might as well not have existed. It was a fresh beginning, a new nationality, a new life as well as a life partner. A clean break. I kept Kobori as my middle name. We’re adopting Crina and we will do the same for her.”

“Sorry.”

“Normally I get asked by my feminist women friends and gay friends who are slightly homophobic to themselves or something, or feel I’m letting the side down and pandering to some kind of heterosexual imitation. It was just a fresh start for me. Dumitre Kobori was the abused youth, Dimi Brown is the adult in charge of his own life.”

Hathaway felt he was being criticised for asking. “I... I... I see. Actually, I do see more than you could possibly realise Mr. Brown. Really. Thank you.” He gave Dumitre a little smile as the name ‘James Lewis’ whispered through his brain...

Dumitre nodded, confused by the young policeman’s reaction. He suddenly felt tired, the pain relief swirling in his system. He closed his eyes.

“Good luck,” Hathaway said impulsively. “Someone will see you in a few days when you’ve recovered to take a formal statement.”

As soon as he climbed out of the ambulance the paramedic leapt back in and the technician banged the door closed and jumped in the cab and pulled away, lights flashing but no siren. Mick, having already strapped Crina in, gunned his battered white van’s engine and followed. The police car with Cope had already left. Lewis was sitting on the wall next to the elderly who had called the police in the first place, a mug of tea in his hand. Hathaway smiled, trust his boss to con a cup of tea out of someone. A uniformed officer stood with a notebook to one side of Lewis, making notes. Lewis looked up and their eyes met. Lewis indicated Hathaway talk to the youths with the other officer with one simple look. Hathaway did as he was told.

 

*

“You okay James?” Lewis asked in the car on the way back, after he had told him of Cope working for the Roschenkovs. He put his hand briefly of his thigh and squeezed.

“It seems wherever we’ve gone with this death we find their fingerprints all over the place. Am I okay? I don’t know? Part of me wants to believe he is insane, it’s the only way I can make sense of why he would hurt me so much. And all the others. But as he’s been running a huge criminal organisation that would imply he was perfectly sane, if evil. Are people evil? And was I just in the wrong place at the wrong time or was it my fault? Did I do something, imply something, that...” James broke off and looked out of the window.

Lewis tentatively reached out for James’ hand and held it. “You did nothing wrong James. Nothing. And you will get through this. But I meant – professionally, d’you want me to take you of this case? With, as you say, the bastards’ fingerprints everywhere.”

“No. I’m fine Sir. Really. We’re almost there.”

“Aye, with all suspects eliminated.”

“Perhaps it was just an accident after all. The doctor isn’t certain, is she?”

 

*

 

Back at the station uniform had already processed Cope and charged him with the assault on Dumitre Brown. Hooper was hovering and seized his DI as soon as Lewis walked into CID.

“Sir, I need to...”

“Yes Constable. All yours. I’m going to wait on fingerprints and DNA, see if we get any matching on the girl, the scene or her room before I talk to him tomorrow. As far as I’m concerned he can stew all night in the cells.”

“Thank you Sir. Maybe he won’t even deny beating up the professor after this?”

“Maybe.”

Half an hour later, while Hathaway was collating evidence for Lewis while he sat staring yet again at his charts and diagrams again Hooper interrupted,

“He wants to confess everything Sir, wants to give evidence again the pimps and people traffickers he works for. They are the...” Hooper glanced at Hathaway and looked worriedly to Lewis.

“Roschenkovs. I know Hooper. But thanks for your concern,” Hathaway said impassively.

“Oh. Right you are then. Do you want to question him boss?”

Lewis scowled up briefly at Hooper before he replied, “I believe DI Peterson is working with Customs and Excise, Immigration, Hampshire, the Met., Manchester and Newcastle on all this. Go tell him.”

“Right you are boss... Sir,” Hooper hastily amended as the scowl grew deeper and more threatening.

 

*

Before Peterson went to question Cope he asked Innocent to observe. He felt so much was resting on his shoulders – so many investigations, drug and alcohol smuggling, people trafficking, enforced prostitution and enslavement, abductions, rape, torture, murder – not only for several forces and border controls in his own country, but France, Germany, Poland all wanted them too. He was aware of the risks this two-bit small time enforcer was taking too, agreeing to tell all he knew.

Innocent too stood in the observation room questioning how impartial she was, this man had paid his cousin to try to shoot her sergeant and the men he worked for had abducted and raped that same sergeant.

Cope sat still, his hands curled around a mug of tea, staring into space. His young solicitor, a woman with dyed blonde hair in a red dress and back cardigan, papers spread in front of her on the table, sat looking nervous, fiddling with her pen and a hair clip.

“Hi Simon. I’m DI Peterson, this is DS Bellamy. I understand you wanted to talk to someone about the Russian criminal organisation run by the Roschenkovs brothers?”

“It was run by their Dad before, but he got wasted in Moscow for treading on bigger bosses territory.”

“Right. So. We’re taping all this, alright? Interview begins at 1721, 12th July 2010. Simon Cope, you say that the two assaults you’ve been charged with and the attempted shooting of a police officer you paid your cousin to do were at the instruction of Yuri Roschenkov, currently on remand in Aylesbury Remand Centre?”

“Before I say anything I want protection. I want to go to prison somewhere where they won’t be, or any of their other men. And I want reduced sentences for helping.”

The solicitor nodded furiously.

“You paid your cousin to shoot one of our officers and you want us to go easy on you?”

“I didn’t want to and I really didn’t want to beat up poor Dimi. But it would have been me dead otherwise. I want to know you can protect me first, okay?”

“I can’t assure that Simon. I have other police forces, other agencies to talk to, as well as my boss and CPS.”

“Do it then. Then I’ll talk, when I know I’m safe.”

Peterson looked at the mirror, horrified. This was outside his experience. He’d only been in Oxford two and a half weeks. He had no idea how his Chief Super was going to react.

 

*

Meanwhile, in his office, Lewis yawned and stretched. “Oh, I’ve had enough of this. We’ve eliminated everyone but Cope, and with his sudden bout of honestly I daresay he’d have confessed if he’d killed that poor girl somehow, although how he’d got to be in two places at once I’ve now idea. Pint Sergeant?”

“Yes Sir. Thank you.” James saved his work and logged off. Lewis hastily shoved his scribbled notes and charts into his drawer and grabbed his jacket.

“Fancy something to eat too? I’m starved.”

“Thank you Sir.”

Lewis opened the door for James, and then the main one on to the corridor. As it closed behind him he thought he caught Hooper mutter to someone,

“Why bother with all the sir-sergeant crap? We all know they’re shagging.”

“We know no such thing,” he heard Ngoti reply, his ears now well and truly pricked and holding the door ever-so-slightly, obscurely, ajar, “Dating, yes, certainly. After what poor Sergeant Hathaway went through...”

Lewis closed the door and caught James up by the stairs, half annoyed with them and half with himself for eavesdropping. As long as it didn’t affect his authority what did he care for gossip? Best not tell James though.

“Trout? My car,” he said as they climbed down the stairs, trying to hide his annoyance.

“Are you okay?” James asked softly.

“Tired. Oh, it’s this case you know. So many sad people manipulated and so on. Come, I fancy a pie and pint and then an early night.

 

*

 

After an hour of frantic phone calls and then another hour in a meeting with CPS Innocent sent for Peterson to tell him CPS had given her reassurances that Cope would not be prosecuted for any other crimes he would inadvertently admit to while giving evidence and as he was pleading guilty to the two recent assaults they would put in a word with the judge regarding his assistance in such big operations nationwide. However, she also had bad news following her discussions with other agencies and her meeting with CPS. The actual prosecution of Yuri Roschenkov concerning the male rapes, including James Hathaway’s, were probably going to be dropped.

“Which I’m not best pleased about, as you can imagine.”

“Yes Ma’am. Why?”

“Oh, the high profile stuff, the drug smuggling and people trafficking are much more politically popular in seeming to have defeated. Call me a cynic, but the Ministry of Justice and Home Office are both behind this, you can count on it. I’m still pushing for at least Hathaway’s assault to be prosecuted – we have undeniable forensic evidence, good witness descriptions and a confession from the younger brother, and for God sake, this was a police officer. He deserves justice!” 

Innocent got out of her chair and began to pace. Peterson stood, trying to keep a neutral face. he wasn’t here then, and Lewis had already jumped down his throat for commenting on what had happened to Hathaway.

“Well, there is some good news to, I suppose,” Innocent went on. “Apparently my push to get Yuri re-assessed by a psychiatrist was the final catalyst, staff at the remand have been asking for weeks – he’s already attempted to rape five inmates, including his brother, attacked two officers and countless inmates and the prison doctor. He was deemed a danger to himself and others, including his brother, and moved to a secure mental facility this morning. He has been pronounced fit, however, to stand trial for the pending charges of people trafficking, fraud, enforced prostitution and enslavement, drug trafficking. This is why CPS want the druggings, abductions and rapes dropped – his defence will go for diminished responsibility due to mental ill health caused by PTSD while he was held by the Chechen Rebels and if that succeeds then Operation Fisher, Operation Diamond and Operation Prince will all fall. He has to stand trial for all the organised crime.”

“Cope claims their father set it up.”

“Yes, they are in a ‘family business’.” Innocent grimaced as she heard herself use the inverted commas sarcastically. “Oh, go home Peterson. Interview Cope after his remand hearing for our two assaults here. Tell his solicitor he is co-operating on three big national operations so she can use it in mitigation. I’ll make sure CPS get him kept in custody. Then it’s all yours.” Innocent sighed.

“Ma’am?”

“Not you Peterson, or even all this. I think I’ve been wasting Lewis’ team’s time. I get the feeling the Coroner will rule an accident tomorrow. Waleria Nowicka’s Inquest is eleven, following Cope’s hearing at nine. Busy morning for me, I shall attend both. Oh, go on; get home Peterson. I’ll e-mail you all I have on the Roschenkovs, providing you do the same for me. Now we have Cope the Met. can’t object to info sharing, can they?”

“It was Customs and Excise’s Operation Diamond, Ma’am. They’d been tapping Aylesbury Remand’s phone. In the morning, Ma’am, then.”

“Good night Peterson. Oh, did you get Hathaway’s statement regarding this morning?”

Peterson thought of the neat printout that sat on his desk. He hadn’t had a chance to read it yet. “Yes Ma’am.”

“Good. Alright is he?”

Peterson thought of the trembling hand and the bitten nails. “Bit shaken Ma’am, but yeah, he’s fine. Good night Ma’am.”

“Night then Alan.”

Peterson left. Innocent sighed and sat back down, pulling off her clip on earrings and kicking off her high heels under the desk. She opened the top drawer of her desk and lifted a file revealing underneath a huge selection of Thortons’ chocolates. She slid of the lid and selected a hazelnut whirl and popped it in her mouth. Life could be a bitch at times, she mused.

 

*

 

James had wandered off, cigarette in hand, to the riverbank. Ducks swam to him expectantly and Lewis smiled to himself as James spread his arms in an apologetic gesture, to indicate he didn’t have any bread. He sipped his pint and looked beyond James, at the sun-dappled water and drying, yellowing grass of the meadow beyond. Despite the occasional rainfall it was a dry summer so far. But he was aware that the schools broke up the following week and he knew from years of parenting you could bet easy money on rain arriving for the six weeks of the schools summer holidays, leaving parents with desperate, bored kids. In his own unit there were several families and he had resigned himself to noise pollution and careful driving in case he disturbed car park football or cricket. He wondered how James felt about school holidays; they were hardly a happy time for him in his childhood. Still, it was one of those things that they never discussed, although Lewis for the life of him wished he knew how to broach the subject, how to get James to open up – about his childhood or his recent assaults. As he watched James flick his cigarette across the patio he wished again that James would give up the cigarettes. But that, too, he didn’t know how to broach.

James joined him and picked up his pint. “Should have brought some bread,” he said between sips.

“They’ll hardly starve this time of year. Greedy buggers. I thought we might eat here. Give you a rest from cooking for us.”

“I don’t cook that much, but it’s no bother. I like to. I did even when I was just your sergeant...”

“Aye, the odd bit of pasta, not the wonderful things you’ve been banging out in my kitchen.”

“Well,” James’ lipped twitched into an almost smile, “they say a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

I can think of other bits, Robbie caught himself thinking dirtily, but he checked himself and thankfully didn’t say it. “Ah, that was the plan all along, was it?” he said instead, grinning.

“Oh, of course,” James smiled back and picked up Robbie’s hand and held it in both of his. “Should we eat here? It’s crowded as it is and it will only fill up with more tourists. You wanted a pie and it’s all posh food here these days, gone are the days of the Trout’s pub grub, it’s all ‘English fayre’ for tourists,” James’ voice dripped sarcasm.

“Aye, and nothing but. Alright, it’s a lovely evening, what say we drive out to the country find a good pub somewhere for a pie?”

James let out a little snort of almost happiness, “Alright. And let’s not talk about the case at all.”

Robbie grinned back. “Not a thought more ’til the DNA and that are back in on Cope and the Coroner has ruled at tomorrow’s inquest, how about that?”

“Sounds like a plan,” James agreed, but both men knew that their thoughts would wander towards the Nowicka Case, because in their separate ways, for different reasons, the facts that had been uncovered about Waleria’s sad little life had unnerved them. James tried not to think of his childhood and teens, and Robbie thought of James, but also of his Lyn, and of Waleria’s parents somewhere in Poland who probably had no idea.

Robbie pulled his hand out from between James’ and instead put it and his other around James’ hands and squeezed gently. “Alright pet. One more pint and we’ll go then.” He was surprised at James’ sudden movement as he pulled his hands away suddenly and leant back abruptly in his chair, quickly picking up his nearly empty pint. He looked at James quizzically who rolled his eyes subtly. Robbie looked up, alarmed, as he heard,

“Mind if I join you both?” Peterson asked, sitting down anyway.

 

*

 

It was crowded and hot inside the bar, a coach party of American elderly tourists had arrived, all wanting to try traditional food and drink and some complaining that the beer was warm while others exclaimed over the oak beams and fittings. As Peterson made his way through the crowds he thought he saw DI Lewis in the garden patio over-looking the river. He stepped out of the way of a Japanese couple and coincidentally ended up closer to the window. He could see Hathaway down on the riverbank, watching the ducks. Peterson watched as Hathaway flicked away his fag butt and made his way back to his inspector, sitting down and taking a pull on his pint.

The windows were open to let in the cooler evening air and Peterson was sure he caught Lewis say something about Hathaway deserving a break from cooking. Surely that was over and above the call of duty for a bagman, even if your guv was an older widower who had probably had the old-fashioned kind of marriage that just didn’t exist these days?

There was a lull in the nearby young Spaniards’ conversation and Hathaway’s definitely flirtatious words floated clearly through the air to Peterson’s ear,

“Well, they say a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” 

Peterson watched as Hathaway dipped his head slightly, looking up at his boss through eyelashes even more flirtatiously before he picked up his guv’s hand in his own. This was fascinating. He wondered if anyone knew. They obviously had no idea he – or anyone from the station – was here. Well, why should they? The Head of the River, the White Horse and the Turf were much more popular. This was the first time he had tried the Trout, a colleague had recommended it. It was a long drive out from St. Aldates through the one-way system and traffic. If it hadn’t been for the crowds of tourists milling about noisily, it was probably worth it though. It was a nice old pub with lovely views of the Isis, the canal and Port Meadow.

Curious now, Peterson picked up his pint from where he had placed it on the windowsill and made his way out through to the garden and patio. As he approached them he observed Hathaway notice him and pull away his hands, now half-covered by Lewis in a rather possessive, protective gesture, and sit back, reaching for his pint. Lewis, his back to the approaching Peterson, was slower of the mark, and when he saw Peterson looked faintly horrified and more than a little embarrassed.

Pretending he hadn’t seen or heard anything, Peterson said, “Mind if I join you both?” and sat down next to Hathaway. As he did so he was aware of Lewis regarding him through narrow eyes, one could almost see the hackles rising on the back of Lewis’ neck. What was it with this man, it was blindingly obvious now that Lewis was not with, nor had any interest in, Dr. Hobson, so it couldn’t be rivalry. He supposed he could be an over-protective friend, but surely Laura would not appreciate any gentlemanly protectiveness. She was a strong woman who liked to take care of herself, that was obvious. It was one of the many things that drew Peterson to her.

“Peterson,” Lewis said coldly.

“Lewis,” he replied, equally coldly, unwittingly narrowing his own eyes. To his right Peterson was aware of an annoyed little huff of breath from Hathaway. For a moment Peterson had a ridiculous image of him and Lewis in a drunken brawl, Hathaway at the side whining, ‘leave him Robbie, he’s not worth it.’ He couldn’t help let out a little snort of suppressed laugher.

“Something funny?” Lewis demanded.

“Not in the slightest. Can I buy you guys a drink?”

“I’ll get them,” Hathaway said hurriedly, standing.

“Here,” Peterson handed him a twenty pound note. “My round. I’ve just had a very interesting meeting with Innocent. What to hear about it?”

“If you must,” Lewis sighed. Peterson suppressed another smile as Hathaway shot his guv – his boyfriend, rather – and angry glare of disapproval.

 

*

 

“Can we start again?” Peterson said as soon as Hathaway had gone into the pub to queue at the bar for their drinks.

“Don’t know what you mean,” Lewis snarled.

“Look, some people rub each other up the wrong way, I get that, but we’re going to be colleagues for the next few years, so we might as well make the effort. So, look, let me first say I am not a gossip or a grass.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do man. James is a lovely lad and it’s none of my business, and the way I see it, none of the Chief Super’s either. And secondly, while James isn’t here, there’s something you need to know. You need to know as his boss, but if you’re close, then you need to know even more.”

“What?” Lewis still couldn’t suppress his anger.

“Innocent had a meeting with CPS today, about Cope and the Roschenkovs – they’ve moved the older one to a secure mental facility but he’s been deemed fit enough to stand trial for the smuggling and organised crime. But to get those convictions, they might be dropping all rape and assault charges.”

“What?”

“Yeah, Lewis, what indeed. Innocent isn’t too happy. James needs justice. I didn’t want to tell you in front of him. Innocent is fighting for it to still get to court, even if it’s just Hathaway’s assault.”

“Yeah. Well. Thanks for telling me. I guess when Innocent knows one way or the other she’ll tell James. Or me. But what gives you the right to say what James needs?”

“I could ask what gives you the right but I think I know,” Peterson retaliated nastily. He then continued, struggling to get a hold on his anger – why did Lewis have it in for him so much? – and said much more reasonably, “He’s a police officer who was hideously assaulted. ’Course he bloody deserves justice. And I interviewed him today –” for all of five minutes Peterson mentally amended “- and I can see how brave he is. Poor sod...” Peterson broke off; Hathaway was approaching the table, three full pint glasses precariously balanced in his hands. “So, Cope has been charged with the two assaults,” Peterson swiftly changed the subject slightly, “but I had to get on to his brief to tell her that he is assisting us and other forces and agencies in three on-going serious crime operations and to request it be used in mitigation. Particularly as the crimes were committed in part in fear of what his bosses would do to him. He’s now, of course, going to give us as much as he knows and testify. I’m interviewing him tomorrow. In the meantime Innocent has to get guarantees he won’t be remanded near the Roschenkovs or any of their other hired thugs. He’s not testifying until he knows he’s safe.”

“Well, you can see his point,” Lewis said. “How long have you got to question him?”

“Well, up to four days in theory, but he’s up before the bench for remanding on the assaults tomorrow at nine, so I might be travelling to wherever he gets placed. Won’t you be there as one of the arresting officers?”

“Aye, and then straight across town for the Coroner’s Inquest on Waleria Nowicka. After all we’ve uncovered and the uncertainty and separate injuries across hours in time I’m expecting an accidental death verdict, after all. Of course, the intimidation could have contributed, even wee Crina’s stone throwing, but the lass was half-starved and drunk in high-heeled boots walking on rough wild grown in the dark. We couldn’t find a single person with opportunity and motive, could we James?”

“Opportunity but no motive, and then there were still alibis of sorts, or weak motives but absolutely no opportunity. It seems unlikely that a random nutter would be so far from civilisation, either, so I agree with my Inspector.” Hathaway smiled at Lewis and took a sip of his beer. He then turned to Peterson and politely asked him what he thought of Oxford so far and why he moved down south again, it being obviously he was originally a Londoner. Polite small talk followed between the two men while Lewis supped on his beer and scowled over his glass. He hadn’t liked the way this man looked at Laura, although he knew he had no right to be possessive or protective of her, she’d been his friend since she was a young, newly qualified pathologist and he had seen straight away she gave as good as she got the way she stood up to Morse’s old fashioned hectoring and patronising sexism. But now he began to wonder if Peterson was as bisexual as he was, the way he was making James laugh and, worse, James was tilting his head submissively the way he had always done with him.

“Right. I’m hungry. We were going for a meal James,” he suddenly said presumptively, standing.

James hurriedly drained his pint and stood too. “Good night Inspector. It was nice talking to you,” he said politely, turning to follow his inspector’s rapidly retreating back.

“Night guys,” Peterson called after them. “Enjoy your meal.”

 

*

As Hooper approached Professor Milyutin’s bed in the four-bed side ward he was surprised to find another man sat beside the Russian sociology professor. The man was obviously a Fellow or some such, the gown was folded up on the back of the chair, along with a blue canvas bag hanging over one corner. The man was about the same age as Anton, maybe a bit older, a bit on the plump side – so was Hooper, it wasn’t something he was going to hold against anyone – with spiked up ginger hair and very pale, freckled skin. He wore a green shirt and black jeans and on his face were some expensive looking designer glasses. He was leaning towards Anton, who was leaning back towards his visitor. They appeared to be smiling and laughing. Hooper coughed to announce his presence and they both looked up.

“DC Hooper, isn’t it?” the professor asked.

“Yes. I brought you these,” Hooper hurriedly held out the bag of grapes. He knew it was a bit of a cliché but he didn’t want to go empty handed and it had seemed like the right thing to do, to come and tell Milyutin that his assailant had been arrested on another assault and had confessed to his. It was the sort of thing DI Lewis would do, and ever since his boss had accused him of being closed-minded he had been determined to prove him wrong.

The other man took the grapes and removed them from the bag, placing them in a bowl along with some apples and plums. Milyutin introduced him as Dr. Adrian Eldridge. After the polite hellos were made and inquiries answered about how Milyutin was fairing – the drip and drain had been removed but he was in for another 24 hours observations and an MRI scan – Hooper explained why he was there.

“But I’m afraid he probably won’t get much a sentence. You see, he has confessed to being paid by the Roschenkovs – you mentioned them to Sergeant Hathaway, yeah?”

“That’s right. But it was years, almost ten years, since I did any translation, or anything, for their organisation. What threat could I be?”

“Dunno. They are either being thorough or the older brother is just being vindictive. He’s a right nutter, just been transferred to a mental hospital.”

“Best place for him. He was always dangerously insane. Can I ask Constable – who was the other recent assault, the one he was arrested for?”

“Romanian guy, Dumitre something.”

“Kobori? Is he okay?”

“Well, not as badly of as you Sir. Broken bones and bruising. But he’s sick, see, has this illness, so he’s in here somewhere too, for observations. Like you.”

“Poor Dimi,” Anton muttered. “If there is anything I can do, if the investigating forces looking into the Roschenkovs need to interview, I am more than happy to share the little I know. Will you let them know?”

“Of course Prof. We’re talking about three huge operations here, across four or five forces and Immigration and Customs and Excise too. I’ll tell the DI here in Oxford liasing with them you translated for them when you were a kid. But I doubt they will want to talk to you, I think they have a lot of more recent evidence anyhow. Well, I just thought I let you know. Hope you get out of here soon. Bye Professor. Doctor,” Hooper nodded briefly to Adrian too, before turning heel and leaving. Maybe Lewis was right, maybe the human touch was better than a letter. After all, he could now pass on the man’s details to DI Peterson for more evidence in Operations   
Fisher, Diamond and Prince.


	11. Chapter 11

Lewis awoke with a sore lower back and a stiff neck. James’ sofa might be longer and firmer and generally more comfortable for sleeping on – he knew James did enough when he was alone, either crashing out in an exhausted, whisky-laced coma or when the nightmares were just too bad he was afraid to go to bed and lay all night reading or staring at the TV until he slipped into an exhausted doze. But James was young and he was not. He was exhausted, the case alone was wiping him out let alone the disturbed previous night, and he had fully intended dropping James after their pub meal and going home to sleep.

However, James had looked to him sorrowfully, trying and failing to hide how nervous he was sleeping in his flat after the previous night’s break in and attempted shooting of him. The fact the culprit was in custody was one thing; irrational fear however, did not listen to reason. Robbie had agreed to come inside and had made cocoa again. He had started to do these comforting things, he knew it was a bit like treating James like a child, but he felt certain no one had given James this kind of loving attention as a child and he wanted to make up for it.

They had sat on the sofa, James shivering slightly. He had murmured something about feeling hung over before he had sobered up and leant his head on Robbie’s shoulder, closing his eyes.

“Headache?” Robbie asked, alarmed at how hot James had felt.

“Uh-huh.”

“Got some aspirin or paracetamol?”

“In the bathroom. I feel awful.” James’ voice had taken on that nasal quality of someone with a blocked nose.

“Did you take anything all day after the tablets I gave you this morning?”

“Forgot. Been too busy.”

Robbie had sighed and chased James to bed with painkillers and his cocoa and then fetched the spare bedding and made himself as comfortable as possible on the sofa. It seemed highly likely James had caught a chill after his early morning dip in the Cherwell. He would have to keep an eye on him; James was so prone to neglect himself.

And now it was just gone six thirty in the morning. He needed to get home and shower, shave and put on a fresh shirt and suit before he came back to pick up James and get to court before nine, where, as the senior arresting officer of Simon Cope in the assault of Dumitre Brown, he would be giving evidence for the prosecution request for Cope to be remanded into custody pending his trial for the assault. As Professor Milyutin had told James the identity of his attacker he would be giving evidence on the second charge of assault.

Lewis yawned and stretched and reluctantly stood. God, he ached. When he came out of the bathroom he checked on James, who to his surprise, was awake, blowing his nose violently.

“You alright?”

“I feel like death warmed up.”

“I’ll get you a cup of tea and some more paracetamol. Got any honey?”

“In the cupboard behind the spice rack. Why?”

“Good for colds and sore throats.

“It’s my head. Feels as if it’s stuffed up with cotton wool while small creatures are dancing on the top.”

“Don’t see any.”

“They are invisible,” James deadpanned, sounding deadly serious.

“But the paracetamol will get rid of it. You are a bizarre lad at time.”

“But you love me Sir.”

“Absolutely.”

 

*

 

By the time Lewis came back to James’ flat it was almost eight. James was sitting at the breakfast bar drinking more tea and picking at a piece of toast. He looked pale, his eyes red-rimmed and nose even redder.

“Feeling any better?”

“Head feels a bit better. Had better days though. Do you want toast?” James voice now sounded raw and sore.

“I’ll sort myself out pet. You just sip that tea. Did you put more honey in it?”

“Yeah. Thanks for the idea.”

“No problem.” Lewis busied himself with putting bread in the toaster and finding the organic blackcurrant jam James had recently bought at a farmers’ market. James watched him over the rim of his mug, savouring the steam from the tea clearing his tubes a little.

“Do you think they will keep Cope in custody?”

“I expect so.”

“And the inquest? What do you think?”

“Dunno, to be honest love. We’ve explored all possibilities. Maybe it was just an accident after all.”

“If we had realised it was just an accident at the beginning...”

“We’d still have had to investigate, the sudden death of a young woman not where she should be.”

“But all this stuff, her past, Dumitre... Brown’s past. Their connections with, you know... Them.”

“Well, the assaults were entirely separate. We wouldn’t have been aware of hers, poor lass. Cope claims not to hurt women, but he messed up her home and her belongings, and he obviously gave her a shove against something hard to bruise her like that. And you – the other night would have happened anyway.”

“Yeah,” James replied tightly, nodding, thinking that if he’d not been upset by Crina he could have easily have been asleep in his bed, and easy target for the shooter. He could have just been shot in the head while he slept! The thought of Robbie or even another DI, and Dr. Hobson, finding him like that was too horrific to contemplate.

“But Yuri is in a secure mental facility now, separate from his brother, who he tried to attack twice in the remand centre. Oh, it’s a bloody mess.”

“When... when do you think it will come to court? Them, I mean. I... I found giving evidence against Augustus bad enough, but this... the defence will want to know what I was doing in the gay nightclub, why I agreed to go off with Sergei. They’ll twist things. Defence did with Augustus. Implied I wanted the attention, that I liked it, that I exaggerated what he did, that I...”

“S’sh love.” Lewis put his hand on James’ shoulder. “Hush pet. Apart from anything else, you ought to rest your voice, with your poorly throat and all. You’re in court in a bit, and that is as a DS, so focus on that for now, yeah? Just worry about being a victim in court when we get a date. What with all the other investigations, it’ll be months yet, maybe years. So don’t fret, okay? I’ll be there for you. I’ll take the day off, not like last time. I’m sorry I let you down. You’ve no idea how much I regret that.”

“It’s alright. I’m alright. Fine. Really. I am. It’s just...” he sighed, “you know.”

“Stuff. Yeah. I know. It’s okay James. You could have been in there looking for a shag; it still doesn’t make it your fault. You were training to be a priest. You were still celibate. You were a virgin, for God sake! Are. You are. Prosecution will paint the right picture of you love.”

“Like they are going to believe that!”

Robbie shrugged and then grinned wickedly. “Well, hopefully you won’t be by then, eh?”

“Dirty bastard,” James muttered.

“Oi. I’ll have you for insubordination Sergeant!”

“And I’ll have you for sexual harassment Sir!” James retorted playfully. “Seriously, though, do you think so? I want to, I just feel so broken and...”

“We’ve time pet, all the time in the world. Now, are you going to eat that toast?”

“Can’t. Sorry. Just don’t feel like food.”

“More tea with honey in it then?”

“Please.”

James sipped his fourth cup of tea while Robbie ate up his toast as well as his own and then made some fresh. They sat in a companionable silence for a while until James suddenly said,

“I asked him, Dumitre Brown, why he did that.”

“Did what love?”

“Changed his surname. He said it was a break from the past; that Dumitre Kobori was the abused youth, Dumitre Brown was a free adult, in charge of his own life.” James sighed deeply. “I can really, really understand what he meant.”

Robbie sighed deeply and looked at James fondly, reaching across the breakfast bar to squeeze James’ hand tightly with his own. “Oh, James lad. Sometimes you break my heart,” he said sadly.

 

*

 

Cope was unsurprisingly remanded in custody pending his trial. Due to mitigating circumstances and the fact that both his defence and Crown Prosecutor both requested it for his own safety, he was remanded into the care of another police force. He was to stay in Oxford’s custody suite until an appropriate location could be found for him.

“That will make DI Peterson’s job a lot easier,” Hathaway whispered to Lewis, who just scowled.

Innocent looked pleased with the result, however, and smiled at the men before informing them that they were driving her to the location of Waleria Nowicka’s Inquest, which was to be held in Abingdon in camera as the County Council, just like the Oxfordshire police, had no desire that the press have a salacious field day concerning the poor young woman’s occupation or immigration status.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Lewis said, sighing, looking over her head at James, who catching his boss’ eye tried not to let out a little snort of humour. He almost failed and turned it into a cough, which given his current situation, soon turned into a real coughing fit.

“Are you alright Hathaway?” Innocent looked at the sergeant, taking in the red-rimmed eyes above the heavy purple bags and the even redder nose, the rest of his skin milk white.

“Fine Ma’am, thank you,” intoned Hathaway in a voice one can usually only achieve when one’s nose and throat are full of mucus.

“No you’re not. Go back to the office and have some Lemsip or something. I’m sure Lewis has some filing you have to catch up on. If you’re no better when I return I’m sending you home. It must be that dip you took in the river to evade your attacker. Quick thinking, by the way, James, and I’m glad you thought of it. Come on Lewis, we’ve the A34 to deal with.”

“See you later James,” Lewis called, striding after the Chief, who for a woman on five-inch stilettos, certainly could move quickly when she wanted to.

“Bye Sir,” Hathaway replied, before sneezing violently and reaching for his handkerchief in his pocket. He didn’t know about Lemsip, but another tea with honey and more paracetamol seemed like a good idea. The honey in the tea was such a soothing thing. He idly wondered who had given it to Robbie, Val or his ‘Mam’, because it was bound to have been one of the women in his life. Could have been a grandmother, he supposed, or even Lyn the nurse. James began to wonder at all the things he didn’t know about his boss and boyfriend, of all the sheer living he had done before James had even been born. Nothing was secret, he was sure; he only had to ask, unlike himself. The only no-go area, of course, was the time after Val died, but only because it was too painful for Robbie and James didn’t want to hurt him. Robbie Lewis was not the one with guilty, shameful secrets he kept buried, too afraid to admit to.

 

*

 

Two hours later Hathaway was on his way back from getting himself a coffee and sandwich when he heard his boss and chief in the stairwell. They had obviously met Hobson on their way up; she had just smiled as she passed him on her way out to attend a RTA.

“No one is in the least questioning your integrity doctor,” Innocent reassured.

“Of course not Laura. You gave your evidence first and the Coroner took all you said seriously. It took him a long time to deliberate.”

“I didn’t say it was necessarily caused by person or persons unknown, just her death may have been. But why question the use of police resources while summing up?”

“If anyone is to blame for that, it’s me,” Lewis said firmly.

“Or me. We had to investigate Laura. It’s politics. The current climate of cutbacks. Besides, I happen to know that Dr. Heast has his eyes set on a political future. He intends to resign in the autumn. Rumour has it he will be selected as the Tory candidate for Oxford West and Abingdon.”

Hathaway smiled to himself as he heard Lewis snort, imagining the look on his boyfriend’s face.

“Yes, but the press will have been there. The criticism of forensic pathology was there, the critique of me was there!”

“It was in camera, remember Laura.”

“Actually, not the verdict Robbie. Just the evidence and background concerning her profession and immigration status. Oh, this is a mess. The new government is gunning for forensics. This is ammunition to beat us.”

“It’s hot air. One can’t solve crime without decent, independent forensics. Am I to go to the lowest bidder of a private lab or hospital? I think not!” Innocent snorted. “It won’t happen Laura. You’re just tired. How about supper tonight? My treat.”

“Um. Thanks Jean. Look, I’d better go. Sometimes... oh never mind!”

“What?” Lewis asked.

“Sometimes it is easier to think that a person, for whatever reason, killed another, than they died in such a pointless, tragic way. Drunk, stoned, starved, clumsy, to fall and break one’s neck. Especially after such a short, miserable life.” Hobson shuddered. 

“I know,” Lewis agreed gently.

They said their goodbyes, Innocent telling Hobson she would text her with the restaurant and time later, when she knew when she could get away and book a table. The two police officers continued up the stairs.

“What about Mr. Innocent?” Lewis asked cheekily. “Won’t he miss you?”

“Mr. Innocent is out of town at the moment on business. A meal out beats something on toast in front of the TV. Besides, I have a feeling poor Dr. Hobson is about to have her hopes dashed regarding one eligible Geordie widower.”

“Uh...?” Hathaway smothered a snort with his hand and imagined Lewis’ reaction as he eavesdropped.

“Oh, I don’t need to know Robbie, officially I really don’t want to know. But I have eyes. You just look after him...” Innocent appeared out of the stairwell, Lewis behind her, smirking. “Sergeant! You do have a habit of just appearing and looming over me. Did you want something?”

Hathaway having been caught eavesdropping at the top of the stairs by both his inspector and chief, had a horrible feeling he was blushing, but he forced his features to remain both neutral and completely innocent.

“No Ma’am. And I do try not to loom Ma’am, but it plays havoc with my spine. I was just on the way back to completing the report with a coffee and sandwich. I take it the ruling was accidental death?"

“Death by misadventure, actually, due to the level of alcohol and her state of mind prior to her falling. Well, I’ll leave you to gentlemen to your lunch. And Hathaway?”

“Yes Ma’am?”

“Go home after Lewis has debriefed you. I don’t want you collapsing on me. You’re as white as a sheet and just as bunged up with cold as you were earlier by the sound of you.”

“Um. Thank you Ma’am.”

Lewis and Hathaway made there way to their office one way whilst Innocent headed for hers in the other direction.

“I take it you heard, then?”

“About poor Waleria? I’m glad. All our suspects seemed too nice.”

“No, about the other?”

“About the good doctor’s paranoia concerning being made redundant?” Hathaway asked mildly, his face a blank mask.

“No man, I meant...!”

“She knows. She’s not stupid Sir, and once upon a time she was a detective herself, you know?”

“Yup. I s’pose. Give us a sandwich them.”

“Get your own Sir,” Hathaway retorted cheekily, sitting down and ripping about the plastic wrap and taking a bite.

“I could remind you that it’s the bagman’s lot to buy lunch.”

“You weren’t here Sir. And the painkillers are making me nauseous. And you know what they say, feed a cold, starve a fever.”

“C’mon. Give us the other sandwich and I’d buy you supper. I’ll even fetch you another one.”

James lowered his lashed and smirked up at Lewis, then handed him the other sandwich. Lewis took a huge bite before sitting down on James’ desk in front of him. “Want me to fill you in on all the details of the inquest, then.”

“Yeah. And then I’ll get off. But can I sleep at yours? I still feel... you know...”

“’Course you can soft lad. I’ll bring home a takeaway. What d’you fancy?”

“Curry?” Hathaway asked hopefully.

“Your wish is my command pet.”

“S’sh, Sir” Hathaway put his finger to his lips and nodded his head in the direction of the outer of office.

“Sod ’em,” Lewis said, but at the horrified look on James’ face he hurriedly apologised and promised to, as he had insisted himself months before, to never use endearments at work, any more than James should call him Robbie.

 

*

 

The following morning Hathaway was on his routine morning coffee/tea run for himself and Lewis when he once again overheard a conversation regarding the Inquest’s verdict on Waleria’s death. This time Innocent was not being so reassuring and kind to Hobson. Indeed, following the press’ reaction, she had managed a 180 degree turn on her previous attitude and was laying in to poor Hobson for not being psychic enough to realise immediately she was looking at an accident, despite the obvious injuries that were from assault as well as those from falling.

“Really Laura! You’ve made us a laughing stock!”

“But Jean...”

“I’ll have superintendent while at work, thank you very much doctor...”

Feeling guilty about yesterday afternoon Hathaway slunk back the way he had come towards the canteen. He could understand why Innocent was so annoyed and looking for someone to take it out on. In fact, on the way to work Lewis had said Innocent would ‘get her knickers into such a twist about all this’. At the time Hathaway had just snorted, knowing their boss’ dislike of negative media attention. Now he felt sorry for poor Hobson, but didn’t know quite how to help her in anyway. Certainly not by drawing attention to himself. Besides, despite saying she was his friend and happy for him, he saw they way she had sometimes looked at Lewis, particularly in the early years of his working for him, when he had first returned from the West Indies.

That morning he had awoken feeling much better after a comfortable if a bit squashed night on Lewis’ sofa. He hadn’t felt safe enough to share a bed, although he did trust Robbie he couldn’t put how he sometimes felt into words. But Robbie had just seen how he was feeling and produced quilt and pillow without a word of reproach or any pressure for even a goodnight kiss. Robbie was like that. Mostly. There was that time... No! They were never to think of that, let alone talk of it.

James had awoke refreshed and early that morning and had cleared away the supper takeaway dumped in the kitchen and put on the coffee. While he had done so he had put on the TV for the breakfast show. On the half hour was the local news, leading with the story of an Oxfordshire coroner criticising the police and pathology for not being able to tell a murder from an accident. They exaggerated his circumstantial comments tenfold. It had got worse, as the main national news on the hour ran with the death, believed initially suspicious, of a prostitute in Oxford, and a young spokesperson from OXCAT and a Home Office junior minister debated strategies to prevent vulnerable women being trafficked and exploited in such a way. 

OXCAT was also on BBC Oxford on the way to work on the car radio too, in a more in depth interview. Professor Milyutin’s book, The Lower Depths, was cited. Following that, a local government councillor and police community member was interviewed, criticising the Oxford Police’s lack of discernment and misuse of resources. The presenter, Malcolm, boldly argued the opposite point of view, pointing out that following the investigation into the poor girl’s demise three on-going national investigations had gained important information. This he had apparently not known before. He was quoting an email from someone who did not give a name. Hathaway thought it was probably Innocent, Lewis thought probably her secretary, she was very protective. It fell on mostly deaf ears, however, as Radio Oxford’s breakfast show was primary a phone-in discussion, so a lot of comments were anti police and anti immigration. It was after the tenth negative call or email Lewis had said what he had about the twisting of Innocent’s underwear.

“Still,” he had said happily, “just a short report for you to write James, no paperwork to sort out for CPS, eh?” as he reached across to squeeze James’ thigh.

 

*

 

“Poor Dr Hobson is getting the fall out from the media,” Hathaway said, placing Lewis' tea in front of him on the desk.

“Is she okay?”

Hathaway shrugged distinctly. He was sure the good doctor could more than stand up for herself, despite having come under a full Innocent verbal assault himself.

“I’ll just pop out and see...” so intent on comforting his friend Lewis missed the insecure scowl of jealousy on his boyfriend’s face.

As he opened the door of CID onto the corridor he saw Hobson storming down, hands in pockets, muttering to herself. He was about to step out and say something when he noticed Peterson coming the other way.

“Are you alright Dr Hobson? Can I help you?”

“Not really. Unless you care to give this report on Grainger’s latest student suicide for me.” Hobson yanked a brown folder from her bag and shoved it at Peterson. Every one of her movements was tense and jerky, speaking volumes concerning her frustration and anger at Innocent.

“Gladly.” Peterson couldn’t have sounded more eager to please if he had tried and Lewis felt certain he was probably intending to sound nonchalant not keen.

Hobson looked up and caught the puppy-dog stare and seemed to relent a little. “Sorry, Inspector. Don’t mind me. I’ve just had a run in with She Who Must Be Obeyed. She’s fuming fit to explode over all the media interest in Robbie’s case and she’s decided I should be psychic.”

“Ah, if only we were, it would make both forensic pathology and detective work so much simpler.”

Hobson smiled. “Yes. Yes it would.”

“Speaking of prediction, there’s a public lecture on the theory of dangerousness next month. Would you be interested? I have a couple of tickets.”

“Oh that old chestnut. Bit old hat isn’t it?”

“This visiting professor claims to have put a new scientific spin on it.”

“Okay then. Why not? Might be worth a laugh at the very least.”

“Could I buy you a coffee? Maybe a cake or pastry? To recover from ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed’.”

“Okay. Why not? Just a quick one. I have to be back in the Mortuary by eleven thirty. But first...” Hobson tapped her file in Peterson’s hand.

“Oh yeah. Of course.”

They turned towards CID. Lewis hurried towards his office, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping.

“What the hell does she see in him?” he demanded as he sat back down at his desk, picking up his now cold tea.

“Who?”

“Bloody action man!”

“Well, true, he’s a poor substitute for you Sir. But she’s not going to get you, is she?”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re jealous, man!”

James shrugged. “Well, he is quite handsome in a rugged way and can be quite charming you know, if you give him a chance...”

“Now I positively dislike the man.”

“Not jealous, are you Sir?”

“Yes!” Lewis snapped. “You’re mine! Don’t forget it.” he watched, pleased, as James ducked his head down, lowering his eyelashes and blushing furiously. He knew it was just want James wanted to here. The lad had so little love in his life, he was desperate to belong to someone the way his parents had obviously never made him feel theirs. Of course his was a very different love, but he intended to make up for James’ god-awful childhood and make James feel as cherished as possible. He sighed. Still, James was right, if Peterson made Laura a little happier, then fine. He had always thought they were friends, but that night in Covent Garden she had said she had always hoped for something, and however much she said she was pleased for him and James, it must be hard for her to understand, let alone be pleased. People always jumped to the conclusion you were straight when you were married. He wondered idly if it worked the other way, that people assumed you were gay if you were with a man. Still, he had the rest of his life together with James, hopefully, to find that out. Besides, he was still a widower with two kids, so maybe it was obvious he was bisexual. As long as no one ever doubted his love for Val or thought he had used her in a crude and nasty way...

“I’ve been thinking about something,” James interrupted his thoughts, still a little pink across his cheeks.

“Hard work that,” Lewis responded with a smile.

James just grinned back before launching into his idea, for to carry it out his needed his boss’ approval and not too much of his boyfriend’s curiosity in one go!


	12. Chapter 12

Lewis and Hathaway drove out to the Browns’ smallholding and caravan park behind Aston Bassett in the pouring rain. It had been James’ suggestion to reassure Dumitre and Mick, and more importantly Crina, that whatever the media was saying, it had been an accident. He also wanted to explain that the police had not wasted any time or effort in finding that out, despite what the local media might be accusing. 

However, to find there was not murder was in a way more satisfying that investigating a murder, as Robbie said on the way out. James merely grunted in agreement. He hated driving in such hazardous conditions, and the many lorries running down to Southampton and Portsmouth were treating the A34 as if it were some kind of container lorry Brands Hatch. It had been his suggestion to visit them but when Robbie had merely nodded and replied, “Aye, I’d had a mind to go anyhow,” he had realised again one of the small and wonderful things about his boss that had made him fall so in love with him.

Crina was outside when they arrived; splashing in very deep, muddy puddles, protected by a bright red kagoule and pink and blue Peppa Pig wellies. She looked up as James neatly brought Robbie’s car to a stop parallel to Mick’s rather dirty white van. She came splashing and slipping towards them as they climbed out of the car.

“James! Inspector! We’re going to get Uncle Dimi! He can come home! Uncle Mick has taken all Fat Simon’s stuff to his Mum’s and changed the locks on the caravan. Isn’t that clever?”

“Yes it is,” James replied, surprised, and a little out of his depth by the sudden wet, muddy hug he was given. He looked askance at his boss and awkwardly patted her shoulder and hair. Robbie bent down and flicked one of her soggy bunches,

“Is Uncle Mick inside the caravan or the cottage.”

“The cottage,” Mick replied from behind them, “but I was just stopping for a bite to eat before we get to the JR. Come on in.”

They all trooped off in procession towards the largest of the three mobile homes, the other two now empty and dark, Mick leading the way and Crina satelliting James and Robbie telling them all about her new colouring book about Celts and what Uncle Mick had cooked – sausages and mash – and how she preferred the Polish sausages that Auntie Walli used to bring and how Uncle Mick and Anthony had told her she should remember the good things about Auntie Walli...

“Crina. Leave the policemen alone. They have come for grown up talk. Take off your mac and boots and get a towel,"

“But Uncle...”

“Now Crina," Mick said in a tone that brooked no argument. Robbie smiled fondly at them,

“Ah, she’s no bother. Are you pet?”

 

*

 

Mick made some coffee, a sandwich for himself and baked beans on toast for Crina, who sat at the table swinging her legs and pretending to share beans with her rag doll and soft toy rabbit while the men sat on the sofas. James and Robbie next to each other on the long one and Mick at the side, keeping one eye on Crina.

“So, how can I help now Inspector? Sergeant? Is this about what happened to Dimi? I heard the news about...”

“Simon Cope has pleaded guilty to the assault, and another, the day before in Oxford. He’s also testifying against the Roschenkovs, who I believe are known to Dumitre,” James summarised. This wasn’t going as he envisaged.

“Will Dimi have to..? I mean, the first trial was so stressful, and then we had to fight the deportation, and although he started the degree and I sometimes think that is what made him so sick, not the stuff before... Will he have to? He’s not strong, you know?"

“It’s good you want to protect him, but you’re wrong, he’s a very strong man, your Dimi,” Robbie said with a smile. “But I take your point about him being ill. There is so much more recent stuff against these Russian bastards that I doubt very much if he will, but yeah, CPS has his name as a potential witness. He agreed to it himself to one of my DCs yesterday.”

“Dimi was so drugged with pain killers yesterday that...”

“It’s okay Mr. Brown, it probably won’t happen. We just came to visit as a courtesy, following all the media interest around Waleria’s inquest. You heard the verdict?”

“I’ve not had any news or the radio on all day. Anthony texted me telling me to avoid it all...” Mick dropped his voice to a whisper, “’til little ears were asleep.”

“I heard that,” Crina said, mid way in her long monologue to her rabbit how baked beans were orange and carrots were orange so Bunny must be a good girl and eat them like Dolly.

“Then it’s a good thing we’re here. James and I thought it best if we told you ourselves that there is nothing to worry about, that no one is to blame in anyway, it was just one of those things,” Robbie said incoherently.

“The verdict was accidental death resulting in a fall...”

“Then it’s my fault!” Crina yelled, jumping down from the table and starting to cry. Mick scooped her up and put her on his lap, rocking her. Robbie and James immediately went to sit either side of him and made soothing noising and explanations until she finally calmed enough to listen to them.

“Look at me Crina. The fall happened a long time after you threw your special flint at her,” James said gently and calmly, making sure Crina was looking at him and listening. “To be honest, it would not even have hurt her that much. It’s like... Um... Do you have cupboards above your bed?” James asked, remembering the layout of the holiday caravans by the sea he occasionally stayed in with his parents as a teenager, they were not happy memories, as a rule.

Crina nodded. “Four. One for clothes, one for toys and two for books and papers and pens and things.”

“Well, do you ever forget to close them and then stand up on the bed and bang your head?”

Crina nodded again. “Sometimes. It hurts. A lot.”

“But it doesn’t hurt for long does it? Or make you feel dizzy and sick so you fall down does it?”

Crina looked thoughtful for a while and then eventually replied, “No, it doesn’t. And once, I caught my head on the very corner of the door and it bled a little bit. I was so scared and thought I was going to die but it was only a little cut and by the time Uncle Dimi and washed it it had stopped bleeding. They didn’t let me back to school with the cut though,” she muttered darkly at the end, thinking obviously of all the schools who hadn’t wanted her because of her disease.

“There you go then,” Robbie said. “Your Auntie’s head hurt a little and she was cross with you, but it was hours later she fell. She probably tripped over in the dark.”

“She was always full of bad drugs and drink, she was always falling over then. But she is in heaven now with Mama, isn’t she?” Crina turned her head to look at her Uncle for this last question, but James answered,

“Yes,” for her very determinedly. 

“And James was nearly a priest before he was a policeman so he should know,” Robbie couldn’t help quipping.

“Really?” Mick asked, full of curiosity.

“Long story,” James said hurriedly, obviously having no intention of going there now. Or possibly ever, Robbie thought to himself. Mick respected this wish and changed the subject to Crina’s meds and her doing a little of her maths workbook after she had taken them to show Uncle Dimi that evening. The mention of workbooks prompted James to remember his idea and excused himself.

“I have something in the car for you,” he said, quickly getting up. Robbie made use of the time to also get up and return to the other sofa, watching for a second time as the wee thing bravely swallowed so many different large tablets.

 

*

James returned in a little over five minutes later carrying a leather document wallet. He sat down with a little groan – the chill had abated but now he ached a little from his early morning tussle and dip in the Cherwell. Mick had made him more coffee at Robbie’s request and he took a sip gratefully before beginning, unzipping the case and removing sheaves of A4 printouts and A5 leaflets.

“Forgive me Mr Brown,” he began.

“Mick,” he was corrected.

“Right. Mick. In the course of conversations with your partner we gathered that keeping Crina in school is hard for you. I hope you don’t mind, but I did a little digging. Has no one, any of the schools, an educational social worker, her GP, suggested the Hospital School?”

“Um, no, I don’t think so, but Dimi is more involved with the talking to schools, doctors and so on. I’m often away, I have to go where the work is – at least until the cottage conversion is finished.”

“You plan to live in it?” Robbie asked.

“Yeah, but in the attic, we’re turning it into a B&B, with the three vans as self catering holiday lets. There’s still so much to do...”

“I can see that,” Robbie said, “but it’s a lovely quiet spot, but near for Oxford. You should do well.

“We hope so.”

“Can we focus?” James snapped.

“Yes. What is Hospital School? Do I go to school in the hospital? That is a long way to go. You need to drive. Or take three buses. We won’t get there on time when Uncle Mick is working will we?” Crina looked up from her workbook at the table, staring intently. She had obviously listened to every word James had said.

“Well, yes, there is a school in the Children’s Hospital for those children and teenagers who are in as patients, but the Hospital School will also arrange for a tutor to visit you for five hours a week, usually one hour a day.”

“One hour of school!”

“No, Crina, one hour with the tutor. He or she will leave you with lots of work your Uncles can help you with.”

“Oh. But no children? Actually, that doesn’t matter, most kids are stupid and hate me anyway!”

“You need friends to play with Crina,” Mick said.

“No I don’t! There is you and Uncle Dimi and Bunny and Dolly and all my Little People play set. There was Sarah and Tim and there will be new people. There is always Mr and Mrs Haycock and their cats. I like their cats a lot. And Mrs Green by the alley always says hello and lets me stroke her dog too. So there!”

“Maybe your Uncle is right Crina, but you don’t have to go to school to find other children to play with. I hope you don’t mind but I got you these.” James picked up the bundle of leaflets from beside him and began to go through them, handing them to Mick one at a time. “I’m assuming Abingdon is the easiest for your partner to get to by bus, so these are all happening there. There are several Brownie groups, but they have waiting lists so you need to get Crina’s name down quickly if she fancies it. And if the whole Guiding thing is not something you believe in there is also a Woodcraft group –” a second leaflet was passed to be added to the three previous ones and printed sheet from the website. “Plus there is ballet, drama, swimming...” more leaflets were added to Mick’s pile on his lap. He was beginning to look bamboozled.

“What about history? Are there history clubs?" Crina demanded.

“Not yet, you’re too young I’m afraid, but there is a Young Archaeology Group for in a few years time.” Another leaflet, this time to Crina, who struggled with the small print and long words, but liked the layout and the pictures of the Celtic, Roman and Saxon finds that surrounded the information.

“So, this Hospital School..?” Mick began.

James produced a wad of sheets of paper he had printed out in the office a couple of hours before. “You need a referral, normally from the child’s own school, but as Crina no longer has one, although technically until you find her another school she is legally still their responsibility since they have merely ‘excluded’ her, so you could still ask them to refer. To be frank I’m surprised none of the five schools have mentioned it.”

“Maybe it costs them money?” Robbie butted in cynically.

“Yes. Thank you Sir. That isn’t really helpful!”

If Mick caught the rather flirty use of sir and the downright insubordinate tone he didn’t show it. Instead he said, rather ashamed, “Maybe it was us, we immediately searched for another school once the last one told us – always apologetically and sorrowfully with no incrimination or blame to us as guardians or Crina’s behaviours in school I might add,” Mick spat out archly, “- that they, quote, ‘couldn’t cope with her complex medical need’ – always the same phrase, you know?”

“Have the Attendance and Engagement office been involved? Have they assigned you a case worker?”

“Nope. I don’t think so. Like I said, you’d be best off speaking to Dimi.”

“Get him to call me,” James handed his card over along with all the Hospital School information.

“Thank you for all the effort.” Mick glanced down at the yet more paperwork besides the blond, skinny policeman. “Is that all?"

“Um, there is another option actually.”

“What’s that?”

“You can opt to home educate. That way Crina doesn’t have to follow the national curriculum. Dumitre could teach her Romanian history, you could teach her Scottish, engage her in what she loves best, pre-history and archaeology, build other subjects around that. I have information here from Education Otherwise and also info from the DoE and County Council websites. There’s all you need to tell you your rights and get you started, if you chose that.”

“Chose that Uncle Mick, chose that!” Crina began jumping up and down. “No more maths! Yes!”

“If we teach you chickie, you do maths, that is a certain, everyone needs maths.”

“Oh poo!”

“Crina! That is a very bad word. Say sorry.”

“Especially to say in front of policemen,” Robbie teased.

Crina obviously didn’t know she was being teased; she looked horrified. “Sorry Inspector, James... I mean Sergeant.”

“That’s better,” Mick said. “Whether we find you a new school, try the hospital school or teach us ourselves needs some thinking, Crina, and Uncle Dimi needs to be the one to make the decision, he will be will you all the time if you don’t go to school whether it is Hospital School or home school.”

 

*

 

By the early evening the wind had blown away the rain clouds and disappeared and the evening sun was warm and bright, like a summer’s evening in August from a childhood storybook. It was the kind of English summer’s evening that always seem to exist in the past day after day. They did not bother going back to the office, but first back to Robbie’s for him to change, and then on to James’ for him also to change and to make a picnic. He had wanted to go back to Shotover Hill, which perhaps could be considered the place of their very first date, although still physically in pain and bleeding from the sexual assaults and even more injured on the inside, James hadn’t really appreciated it as a date at the time. The fact he referred to it now as such had pleased Robbie so much he couldn’t stop grinning as he drove them up there.

As before Robbie laid a blanket down and carried the picnic while James hung back a while, having a cigarette. This time though it was not Tesco carrier bags and bits and pieces he had picked up from their Finest Range with paper towels to wipe their hands, but sandwiches made from the contents of James’ fridge and a rather nice bottle of wine he’d had hanging around, along with a cake they had picked up from the bakery in Headington, all carried in a rather posh picnic basket that came with its own crockery, cutlery, wine glasses and crisp linen napkins. This time too James could drink, unlike last time, when with the reaction to the Rohypnol and his own prescribed Seroxat, along with the strong prescription pain killers, he had most definitely been forbidden alcohol, even if Robbie had to watch him night and day to stop him drinking.

Yes, thought Robbie, smiling to himself, his James was doing well, when he thought how little time it was since those bastards hurt him! He was right not to push anything, to just take anything, any hug, any little kiss, James offered, when he felt safe.

And James obviously felt safe as he fed Robbie little bits of food and kissed his fingers and later, after the food and wine was done, curled up around him to watch the sunset. They lay in each other’s arms long after the sun had gone and the summer evening turned from bright blue to orange and red and then to dark blue, to purple and finally to inky black and full of stars.

“I do love you so much,” James had said.

“I know pet. I know you do. And me too, love you so much that is. I’m no good at saying it so much.”

“And I’m much better, am I?!” James snorted.

Laughter turned to kissing and Robbie found himself lying on top of James, between his long legs.

“I’m not too heavy, am I? Pushing you in the ground,” he asked.

“No,” James whispered, “but we ought to stop before we have to arrest each other for lewd behaviour in a public place. Besides, there’s a documentary on BBC4 I was hoping to watch.”

“Let’s get back to yours then love,” Robbie said with a huff of laughter. An owl hooted in agreement.

 

*

 

Much later that night Crina crept into her uncles’ bedroom at the end of the mobile home and slipped into bed between them, waking them. Dumitre winced and gasped and Mick sat up, putting on the light,

“Careful of Uncle Dimi chick, he still hurts in his broken bones and bruises. Are you okay he? Have a bad dream? Missing Auntie Walli. Or your Mama?”

“Sorry Uncle Dimi,” Crina said, kissing his fingers poking out of his cast. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m not missing Auntie Walli, I’m happy that she is in heaven and that nobody killed her.”

“Good darling, but it is... sweet Jesus, it’s gone two in the morning Crina! A long time past your bedtime.”

Crina wriggled further down the bed in between the two men. “I can’t sleep. I’ve been doing lots of thinking.”

“Is it about what Sergeant Hathaway – James said?” Mick asked.

“Did you read all the things yet?” Crina demanded of Dumitre.

“Yes, I have. What would you like to do Crina? Shall we try to get the Hospital School to agree to teach you or shall we be your teachers?”

“Um. What do you want to do Uncle Dimi? You get tired.”

“Well, it seems to me that for me there is no difference in what I do in things that make me tired. Your Uncle Mick and I talked about this. Uncle Mick is away or busy with the cottage and it is me who looks after you in the day. So, whether the teacher comes and sets you work and I help you or I teach you myself it seems the only difference is the hospital teacher will make you learn the nationally curriculum and you will have to still do SATS or you and I can chose what you learn...”

“I can chose!”

“We will all chose. You must learn maths and spelling,” Mick said firmly.

“And science,” Dumitre added.

“Oh. But lots of history?”

“Of course. And art,” Dimi said with a smile.

“I like art,” Crina murmured, snuggled into her uncle carefully.

“So, have we decided?” Mick asked.

“I think so. We need to do a lot more research but I think it might be the best option. Maybe we can explore the Hospital School some more too but I like the idea of home education, really. I don’t know why the Hospital School was never suggested. I mean, I have to always go into whatever school at lunchtime for her meds; I have to pick her up every time she cuts herself. Why did no one say there is this school for sick children? Is it because we’re Romanian? Gay? What?”

“Hey, don’t get paranoid Dimi! You don’t usually have chips on your shoulder.”

“You should read some of the racist crap from internet trolls on the stories about Walli!”

“Yeah, but that’s not what we’re talking about here. I think we’ve been dealing with teaching staff who don’t know or head teachers with small budgets that can’t afford it. And without a school to pay she probably won’t get a place. But it won’t be anything to do with having gay parents or being Romanian or HIV positive. Chill Dimi. Let’s just say right now we are going to home educate and go with that. Okay?”

“Okay,” Dimi said, smiling. “I’m sorry for being a bit paranoid.”

“No. No, it’s alright, I know you’re in pain.”

Crina had sat up again between her uncles and had been following the discussion with apprehension. She hated rows, Mama and Walli, Mama and Jaska, Mama and other men, they all shouted at each other. Her uncles hadn’t been shouting but it hadn’t been nice. She was surprised her face was wet with tears. Usually she knew if she was crying. Suddenly her uncles were enfolding her in their arms and making her into a kind of Crina sandwich, both making soothing noises.

“I miss Mama,” she wept. She was very cross with herself. She had had what she wanted to say all planned but then Uncle Mick had asked about schools and she had got confused. After a while she pushed them away. “I said I had been thinking. It had not been about going to school at home with the Hospital or you! In was lots more important than that!”

“What darling?”

“Anthony is going to court to make you my parents, to adopt me, yes?” she said the word adopt very slowly and carefully, it being a new word to her.

“Yes, we are going to adopt you, but your Mama will never stop being your mother, never!” Dimi answered.

“I know that, but I will have two dads. And I want to call you that. Starting from now. If you let me. If you want.” Crina sounded so nervous, both men held their breath, both desperate to interrupt but both knowing that they shouldn’t. “I want to call you Dad, Uncle Mick, and you Tata, Uncle Dimi. I’ve been thinking. I can’t call you both Dad, that will be confusing, so I will use Romanian for my Romanian Dad and English for my English Dad.”

“Scottish,” Mick blurted out immediately, despite his intention not to interrupt.

“You are half English. Your Mum was English. It is your Granny’s land and house we live in, isn’t it? My second school that was your Mum’s old school, wasn’t it? See! English! And anyway, they speak English in Scotland too!”

“Aye, very true.”

“So there! And now I’ve told you what I was thinking, what do you think?”

Dimi and Mick looked at each other over the top of her head and nodded to each other, smiling.

“We love it. Dad and Tata sounds great. And Mama will always, always be your mother,” Dimi said.

“Watching from heaven,” added Mick.

“Or the sky. She still might be a star, mighten she?”

“Maybe,” the not so lapsed as people though Catholic Mick conceded.

“But whatever happens about school Crina, you must go to clubs and classes. You must meet other children,” Dumitre insisted, going back to their previous conversation, afraid if they didn’t focus on practicalities he might cry at the honour and trust his big sister’s daughter had placed in him. She wasn’t the only one to miss  
Tatiana.

“Oh, okay.”

“If the world weren’t so unfair we could go to Mass and Crina to Sunday School,” Mick said with a sigh.

“Lie,” Crina said abruptly.

“What? You can’t lie in church!”

“God won’t mind will He? If it gets me to learn about Him. You just say Uncle Dimi, I mean Tata, is my dead Mum in heaven’s brother who looks after me and you are his best friend. They don’t need to know you are married. What you do is not bad; it is love. I know bad things that God hates, that is what Mama and Auntie Walli did with lots of men for money. I see it all you know?”

“Uh huh,” Dimi nodded, speechless. Her social worker had warned them all about this and that she might talk about it at times.

“But if you don’t want to lie to get me to meet children at church I might like to dance. And I like the look of the Brownies. How soon can I join? Dad? Tata? Will you get me a uniform? Will they let me go on camps with my sickness or will that bit be like school? I don’t mind if I miss out on camps if I can make things and do badges and things!” Crina was now bouncing between them.

“Okay, Brownies and dancing lessons and home education it is,” laughed Mick, but now you must go to sleep, your Dads need theirs.”

“Can I stay here?”

“I think your Un... your Tata is in too much pain. But if you snuggle down I’ll carry you back to bed once you’re asleep, okay?”

“Okay... Dad. Tata, tell me a story.”

“Which story would you like?”

“The Little Mermaid. Don’t get a book, make your own one up.”

Dumitre began, trying to remember what he could from Crina’s book, the Disney movie and the version his mother told him and his sister when they were little. He got as far as the rescue of the prince and the mermaid falling hopelessly in love when Crina, now snuggled down between them and sucking her thumb, murmured, “I think James is like that with Inspector Lewis, don’t you? He looks at him like he is a prince.”

“Well, maybe... shall I go on?”

“Yes please,” Crina said around her thumb and a yawn, “Tata. I hope he gets his inspector prince and lives happy ever after. He was nice. Taller than you, which is very, very tall...” but she never finished the word tall. She had fallen asleep.

“I’ll make us some tea,” Mick whispered as he carefully carried her to her own bed. “And bring you your pain killers. “I can’t believe how happy I feel at being called Dad.”

“I know,” Dimi whispered back. “There’s some chocolate digestives in the cupboard.”

“Perfect.”

 

*

 

At James’ flat the easiness he had felt with Robbie out in the open on the slopes of Shotover Hill had evaporated, but Robbie had understood and didn’t push a thing. He felt safe enough, at least, to let Robbie sleep in his bed, curled up next to him, head on his chest, listening to him breathe.

Robbie had fallen asleep with his arms around James, content that even if it had been only a few moments and hours before outside, James had felt so comfortable he had rolled them over and pulled Robbie on top of him, spreading his legs, hugging Robbie’s hips with strong thighs and kissing Robbie’s neck. He didn’t think James even realised how proactive he had been, and he wasn’t going to mention it. But he had fallen asleep with hope. They would get there. James would get over the rape and the childhood abuse both. He had faith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Finally, one of my WIPs finished! I must confess to have fallen in love with all my OCs on this one, which is why I couldn't bear any of them to be a murderer, even thug Simon! I hope no one thinks it's a cop out. And don't be surprised if some of these guys turn up on the Reception guest list in the last chapter of White. Spoilers!

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the original bedtime stores for babyklingon that I began three years ago, told verbally. However, she nearly always fell asleep after the body, so I'm not sure where I'm going unlike something like Cold summer or Blue Autumn Love. Apologies if it doesn't hang together so well.


End file.
